GIFT  OF 


mo  WANTED 
A 
BUNGALOW 

LIONEL 
•JOSAPHARE 


NOT  RESPONSIBLE  for 
TME&MOWlost,  IDEALS 
CHIPPED  on  the  edges,  or 
HABITS  of  LAZINKS  Acquired 

b  book  or 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED 
A  BUNGALOW 


Being  the  Veracious  Account  of  an  Author  Who 

Went  Back  to  Nature  to  Get  Inspiration 

and  Reduce  Expenses 


By 


LIONEL  JOSAPHARE 

Author  of  "  A  Tale  of  a  Town,"  "  The  Sovereign  in  the  Street,' 
"  The  Lion  at  the  Well,"  "Turquoise  and  Iron,"  Etc. 


SAN     FRANCISCO 


Copyright;  1907,  by  UonelUosaphare 


DEDICATION 


To  John  D.  Rockefeller: 

Perhaps  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  from  me  at 
this  late  date,  seeing  that  that  which  might  have  been 
never  was,  is  not,  and  it  might  be  that  wasn't. 

You  will  doubtless  remember  how  when,  as  boys,  we 
did  not  go  fishing  in  the  same  rustic  pool,  nor  sit  side 
by  side  sharing  the  contents  of  our  simple  lunch  bask- 
ets. Fond  memories  of  later  years  which  we  did  not 
enjoy  together  on  the  golf  links  nor  at  your  summer 
home,  still  linger  with  me,  as,  I  trust,  with  you. 

I  do  not  dedicate  this  book  to  you  because  you  are 
a  rich  man.  I  would  not  stoop  to  such  an  affectation. 
It  is  because  you  are  the  very  richest  that  I  thought  of 
you  immediately. 

Perhaps  at  a  future  time  we  may  renew  the  friend- 
ship that  was  unreal ;  for  unreality  is  the  ideal. 

Therefore  in  token  of  the  many  things  we  have  in 
common,  you  in  the  reality  and  I  in  the  ideal,  our  many 
industries,  charities  and  fortunes,  yours  from  oil-wells 
and  mine  from  ink-wells,  permit  me  to  inscribe  my- 
self, with  a  deep  regard  for  your  sources  of  income, 

Your  well  wisher, 

L.  J. 


239430 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Buying  a  Studio  Farm 7 

Laurel  and  Alfalfa 14 

The  Bombastic  Farmer 23 

The  Fate  of  Minotaur 30 

An  Interrupted  Story 40 

The  Effect  of  a  Mosquito  on  Socialism 49 

Debate  Between  a  Reporter  and  a  Farmer 57 

Have  You  Ever  Felt  Like  This? 64 

The  Tints  of  Nature , 74 

Evolution  of  a  Useful  Article 82 

After  All..  .  87 


The  Man  Who  Wanted 
a  Bungalow 


BUYING  A  STUDIO  FARM 

Almost  every  man  who  knows  the  meaning  of  "sky- 
blue"  or  likes  to  look  at  a  squirrel,  has  had  longings 
for  the  country.  A  City  life  supplies  all  the  luxuries 
except  sweet  air  and  sound  livers.  Does  not  the  imagi- 
nation in  a  dark  dining  room  verily  smell  the  walls  of 
restraint?  And  do  not  the  far-fancied  field-lights  and 
the  distant  azure  burn  voluptuously  ? 

I  had  lived  in  a  village  when  a  boy,  proud  of  every 
wart  on  my  fingers;  which  proves  me  a  predisposed 
lover  of  Nature.  In  the  later  muddle  of  a  metropolis, 
rural  fancies  were  constrained  to  exercise  themselves 
with  Spring  poems,  sonnets  to  choice  neighborhoods  of 
Creation,  and  such  interpretations,  that  were  not  worth 
one  real  glance  at  a  buttercup  or  shoes  printed  with 
dew  by  the  blades  of  grass,  The  City  tills  the  mind 
with  commercial  thoughts.  It  puts  muck  on  our  heart- 
felt desires,  until  mushrooms  grow  in  the  gloomy  in- 
stincts we  had  theoried  with  roses  for  the  sunlight.  It 
makes  us  cross  as  the  Devil  with  his  tail  caught  in  the 
door  when  we  have  to  wait  five  minutes  for  dinner. 
This  brings  the  wish  for  meadows  where  there  is  no 
waiting,  because  nothing  is  expected,  and  nothing 


8  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

comes  except  many  varieties  of  quietude.  You  sit  by  a 
plashy  creek,  and  a  bullfrog  that  looks  as  wise  as  if  he 
had  been  reading  Schopenhauer,  causes  you  more 
amusement  than  a  vaudeville  show  on  Ellis  Street.  A 
beetle  that  has  fallen  on  its  back  arouses  more  excite- 
ment than  a  fire  or  a  runaway  in  the  Western  Addition. 
And  a  woodtick  in  the  armpit  makes  all  Nature  seem 
sublime. 

Often  a  mild  summer  breeze  would  bring  me  boy- 
hood fragrances,  fairyland  impulses;  a  board  walk 
edged  with  furze,  make  me  dream  of  treading  the  land- 
scape, joyous  as  a  god  who  has  thrown  away  his  watch 
and  time-table. 

There  was  another  phase.  Rents,  pleasures  and 
prices  were  doing  a  startling  aerial  performance  in  my 
resources.  My  literary  achievements  did  not  attract 
an  income  of  strong  steady  pulsation.  There  would 
be  periods  of  few  receipts  from  editors,  unharmonizing 
with  the  systematic  business  tones  of  boarding-house 
keepers.  My  own  landlady  had  a  first-of-the-month 
scowl  that  was  like  the  dungeons  of  despair.  In  her 
evil  times,  it  gave  me  rheumatism  and  palsy  and  the 
gout  to  approach  her.  Requesting  two  days  of  her 
indulgence  was  accompanied  by  more  anguish  than  a 
confession  of  all  the  rest  of  my  sins.  Supplementing 
this  plea  with  a  statement  that  I  had  money  in  the  bank 
made  her  milk  of  human  kindness  turn  to  limburger 
cheese  and  infect  me  with  the  blues  for  an  hour. 

The  idea  came  that  on  an  acre  of  ground  I  could 
make  one  successful  month  help  along  a  subsequent 
bad  one,  as  if  holding  the  net  for  a  bad  fall  of  pros- 
perity. Then,  with  vegetables  bobbing  up  from  the 
ground  at  all  seasons  of  the  year  (I  saw  them  bobbing 
in  gorgeous  array)  and  chickens  laying  eggs  here  and 
there,  a  cow  with  its  portable,  inverted  milk  fountain, 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  9 

I  would  never  lack  homely  provender.  With  a  capital 
of  $200,  the  first  payment  could  be  made ;  I  could  farm 
the  mortgaged  acre  a  few  hours  a  day,  and,  with  my 
pen,  cultivate  it  as  an  acre  of  Parnassus  during  the 
others.  Literary  labors  would  be  unharassed  by  the 
punctual  outlays  of  the  City.  Time  would  not  be  despot 
to  tax  me  with  bills  for  the  maintenance  of  an  appe- 
tite. I  pictured  myself  off  in  the  seclusion  of  this  acre, 
free  as  Piping  Pan,  industrious  as  Vulcan,  and  yet  not 
so  far  from  San  Francisco  as  to  become  hayseedy  and 
afraid  of  modern  improvements. 

Not  knowing  just  what  town  across  the  bay  would 
offer  the  most  inducements,  I  scanned  the  newspaper 
advertisements  and  found  it  to  be  a  case  of  no  good 
nor  better,  but  all  best.  I  could  either  take  pains  to  se- 
lect the  choicest  of  the  charming,  the  balmiest  of  the 
best,  or  make  no  mistake  by  trusting  to  the  Pande- 
monium of  chance.  Almost  all  were  within  a  half  hour 
of  San  Francisco,  exquisite  opportunities,  the  whipped 
cream  of  a  bargain,  the  most  logical  of  locations.  And 
all  desired  me  to  act  quickly  and  secure  one  of  the 
cheapest  little  homes  yet  offered,  one  that  would  bear 
the  closest  investigation. 

In  this  mood,  I  consulted  a  real  estate  agent  and 
confided  my  plans.  He  thought  I  was  doing  the  wisest 
thing  in  the  world.  This  made  my  ardor  feel  as  phe- 
nomenal as  the  four  elements  at  the  outset.  For  what 
better  start  can  one  have  than  with  doing  the  wisest 
thing  in  the  world,  especially  in  the  worldwise  opinion 
of  a  real  estate  dealer? 

He  had  the  place  I  required :  a  four-room  bungalow 
in  an  acre  of  ground  north  of  Melrose.  Melrose  !  I  had 
read  of  it  often  in  all  sizes  of  type.  It  had  been  to  me 
one  of  those  intangible  situations  alluded  to  as  twelve 
miles  from  San  Francisco,  twenty  minutes  from  Oak- 


10    -         THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

land,  convenient  to  Haywards;  though  the  temptation 
of  being  convenient  to  Haywards  never  seemed  to  me  a 
strong  play  on  the  imagination.  Having  read,  during 
several  weeks,  of  a  delightful  spot  so  many  miles  from 
somewhere  and  so  many  minutes  from  somewhere  else 
and  convenient  to  otherwheres,  I  had  no  hint  of  it  be- 
ing Melrose.  Now  was  the  delightful  spot  discovered. 

On  this  acre,  I  was  now  told,  existed  a  cow,  a  bull, 
and  a  "veal,"  six  pigs  and  fifteen  chickens.  0  gar- 
rulity! I  had  unconscientiously  yearned  to  possess 
some  fauna  of  this  character,  but  lacked  the-  courage 
to  affront  my  town-lubbering  friends  by  collecting 
them.  There  they  were,  and  I  could  not  help  their  be- 
ing there.  Besides,  I  would  not  have  known  how  to 
buy  them,  had  I  so  desired.  They  were  part  of  the 
acre.  It  would  be  unnecessary  to  move  into  my  new 
quarters  leading  fifteen  chickens,  six  pigs,  a  bull,  a  cow 
and  a  veal  at  the  end  of  so  many  strings  and  ropes 
through  Melrose  to  my  farm.  I  would  take  this  prop- 
erty, if  it  pleased  me  on  inspection;  and  would  inspect 
forthwith. 

Its  price  was  $2000  and  would  soon  be  worth  twice 
as  much;  had  cost  $3000;  but  the  owner  was  going 
east  and  would  accept  $200  cash,  I  to  assume  the  mort- 
gage. 

On  the  following  day  I  took  the  broad-gauge  train 
for  Melrose.  A  bulwark  stopped  the  local  from  run- 
ning into  the  main  street.  This  thoroughfare  did  not 
cause  any  highfaluting  throbs  of  admiration  until  I 
caught  sight  of  a  canvas  sign  over  a  real  estate  office; 
to  wit:  MELROSE,  THE  CHICAGO  OF  THE  WEST. 
This  encouraged  as  well  as  surprised;  for  there  was 
nothing  Chicagolike  that  I  would  have  discovered  by 
my  own  sense  of  sight  or  smell. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  11 

I  followed  directions  northward  past  the  Boulevard 
unto  an  open  country. 

The  scenery  was  not  romantic,  not  fascinating  as  a 
spread  of  beauty  nor  yet  engulfed  in  the  artistic  dis- 
mal. It  was  just  Nature  common-place.  Most  of  the 
ground  was  in  stubble.  The  cottages  and  shacks  here 
and  there  were  neither  beautiful  as  bright  homes  nor 
picturesque  ruins.  Neither  a  carpenter  nor  an  art  critic 
would  have  praised  them.  Some  of  the  little  gable- 
roofed  things  were  patterned  after  that  school  of 
architecture  often  seen  on  the  slate  of  an  eight-year-old 
boy.  The  paths,  edged  with  dry  grass  (future  streets, 
I  opined)  took  one  over  undulating  fields  the  most 
dazzling  aggregation  of  blank  spaces  that  ever  lured 
the  marvelous  eye  of  a  grasshopper.  These  future 
streets  were  not  straight;  but  many  of  Boston's  streets, 
I  had  heard,  were  old  cow-paths.  Why  not  the  same 
in  the  Chicago  of  the  West,  with  its  probability  of  tw6 
thousand  inhabitants  ? 

One  irregular  pass,  about  eight  inches  wide,  I  named 
Parnassus  Avenue  as  I  went  along,  in  honor  of  the 
Muses  that  were  to  come  there.  A  short  way  ahead, 
Parnassus  Avenue  ran  disappointingly  into  a  tent  in  the 
back  yard  of  a  home-made  shack.  Still  I  allowed  the 
name  to  stand  irrevocably.  Prudently  refraining  from 
styling  other  thoroughfares  until  their  thoroughness 
should  be  an  established  fact,  I  followed  another 
way,  which  eventually  went  between  the  legs  of  a 
horse  in  another  back  yard,  and  was  thence  lost  to 
view;  so  I  thought  there  would  be  nothing  unseemly 
in  calling  it  Pegasus  Alley,  in  honor  of  said  equine, 
and  with  hopes  for  the  alley's  future.  I  then  pursued 
the  Appian  Way  until  it  ended  at  an  old  beer  bottle. 

Presently  I  came  to  "my"  bungalow  and  acre. 

A  slim  dame  in  faded  pink  flannel  was  at  the  gate. 


12  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

Such  entire,  forgetfulness  and  subterranean  dimness 
were  in  her  eyes  that  I  guessed  she  had  drunk  of  the 
waters  of  Lethe  and  eaten  of  asphodel  and  moly 
(which,  I  thereby  judged,  were  not  fattening). 

She  guided  me  around  without  enthusiasm  or  even 
human  interest,  save  whatever  pathos  one  could  make 
out  of  her.  The  grounds,  I  saw  with  my  unrural  eye, 
had  not  been  cultivated  recently.  The  cows  had  not 
been  brushed  nor  the  fences  and  trees  dusted.  Some 
of  the  newspapers  lying  about  the  back  door  looked 
as  if  they  had  not  been  washed  for  months.  The 
principle  growth  was  straw  and  feathers.  In  a  fenced- 
off  tractlet  was  the  cow  family.  The  only  animated 
part  of  the  bull  was  his  mouth,  which  worked  into  all 
sorts  of  queer  convexities  and  paraboloids.  The  cow 
was  a  thoughtful,  red-plush  creature,  and  seemed  to 
be  ruminating  upon  some  new  philosophy,  which  ap- 
peared to  sour  her  nature,  and,  I  feared,  her  milk.  The 
calf  was  pretty  well  grown  up,  and  if  in  a  circus,  I 
would  have  thought  him  a  little  camel.  He  did  not 
possess  much  of  his  mother's  temperament.  Occa- 
sionally he  would  start  off  as  if  imagining  himself  a 
butterfly;  then  would  stop  and  look  at  the  distant 
hills  to  distract  attention  from  his  incongruous  be- 
havior. But  he  so  resembled  a  camel  that  I  forgave 
him  for  acting  like  a  butterfly. 

We  next  called  on  the  pigs,  which  looked  at  me 
critically  from  their  wallow.  In  fact,  so  fatuously 
supercilious  was  the  stare  of  one  of  the  porkers  that 
I  hesitated  giving  him  the  satisfaction  of  purchasing 
him.  The  chickens,  on  the  contrary,  were  a  cheery 
lot,  and  the  bungalow  nooky  with  ideals.  It  was  an 
inspiring  home  in  which  to  write;  and  I  told  the 
woman  so.  The  statement  caused  a  momentary  hu- 
man light  in  her  eyes.  Having  assured  her  I  would  ar- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  13 

range  with  the  agent  to  take  the  place,  I  strolled  back 
to  Melrose  station. 

On  the  way  I  noted  that  the  main  activity  of  Mel- 
rose  consisted  of  five  small  boys  flying  kites  and  a 
tow-headed  girl  eating  pale  bread  with  brilliant  red 
jelly.  Something  in  my  soul  tempts  me  to  spell  it 
t-o-e  headed,  which  might  have  been  a  slight  injus- 
tice to  the  size  and  shape  of  her  innocent  pate. 

This  soporific  environment  called  for  approval, 
though,  and  my  heart  responded  with  tumultuous  ap- 
plause. 

Back  to  the  City;  which  now  took  on  the  aspect  of 
a  distant  town  to  my  home  in  Melrose.  I  paid  over 
the  $200,  which  included  a  $100  check  I  had  just  re- 
ceived from  an  eastern  magazine.  Less  than  $100  in 
cash  remained  to  me.  Most  of  this  went  for  the  ex- 
penses of  moving,  payment  for  a  couch  and  cooking 
utensils  and  provisions.  Other  furniture  was  to  be 
bought  as  the  mood  seized  me  and  I  could  seize  the 
cash.  Gradually  I  would  add  pictures,  ornaments, 
quaint  lamps  and  articles  of  interest  until  Melrose 
should  have  one  of  the  show  places  of  Pacific  Coast 
Literature ;  or,  in  other  words,  a  literary  studio  fit 
for  the  " Chicago  of  the  West." 

Ah!  I  remember  my  last  night  in  the  City.  I  was 
ready  to  steal  away  early  in  the  morn,  from  trolley 
noises,  rumbling  streets,  labyrinthal  discomfort.  Yet 
even  as  I  was  about  to  leave  them  they  seemed  to 
manifest  strange  melodies  and  colored  apparitions  of 
association  to  hold  me. 

I  stood  late  at  my  bed-room  window,  peering  down 
a  narrow  angle  of  illuminated  street;  then  arranged 
for  a  grand  voluntary  du  matin  on  the  alarm  clock, 
and  went  to  sleep. 


LAUREL  AND  ALFALFA. 

There  are  few  things  in  the  world  that,  for  length, 
breadth,  thickness,  and  Oriental  imagery,  exceeded 
my  ignorance  of  agriculture.  Frequently  having 
heard  the  expression  that  what  a  certain  man  did  not 
know  about  a  certain  thing  would  make  a  pretty  big 
book,  it  once  occurred  to  me  to  put  the  idea  into 
practice.  And  if  so,  to  make  haste;  for,  after. spend- 
ing a  year  on  my  farm,  I  knew  less  about  its  needs 
than  when  I  began.  Should  I  delay  longer,  there  is  no 
telling  to  what  seeming  impossibilities  my  void  of 
knowledge  would  extend,  and  What  I  Do  Not  Know 
about  It  make  an  impractibly  large  volume. 

In  the  custody  of  my  estate,  I  did  not  intend  that 
this  inexperience  should  embarrass  me.  A  vibration 
of  originality  had  always  caused  me  to  do  things  in  a 
novel  way.  I  decided  to  apply  this  trait  to  the  man- 
agement of  my  farm;  not  only  because  it  might  lead 
to  hitherto  unheard-of  successes,  but  required  less 
knowledge.  It  is  easier  and  quicker  to  be  original 
than  experienced.  New  conditions  make  new  cus- 
toms. Do  we  not  see  elephants  eat,  glad  to  get,  pop- 
corn and  roasted  Virginia  peanuts?  Yet  what  astute 
Zulu  or  Siamese  would  have  thought  of  offering  rasp- 
berry popcorn  or  Virginia  peanuts  to  the  captured 
mammoth  of  the  jungle?  Verily,  he  would  have  given 
his  Dark  Continent  laugh  or  his  South-Sea  guffaw  to 
the  suggestion.  No,  said  I  to  myself;  I  will  not  let 
ignorance  lead  me  astray  to  the  paths  of  study.  I 
shall  be  guided  by  intuition  and,  if  anything  else, 
logic.  This  shall  be  a  Bohemian  Farm,  run  on  a 
strictly  inspired  basis. 

Thus,  in  planting  vegetables,  I  had  a  vague,  sneak- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  15 

ing,  contemptible  idea  of  some  special  season  being 
proper  for  each  sort  of  seed.  This  I  scorned  as  the 
gutterals  of  my  baser  nature,  the  taint  of  commonality 
that  is  in  us  all.  My  seeds  should  all  be  planted  con- 
veniently at  the  same  time,  and  I  would  doubtless  be 
eating  strawberries  when  cabbages  were  the  only 
other  fresh  fruit  on  the  market.  Nature  would  face- 
tiously help  me  out.  For,  is  it  not  one  of  Mother  Na- 
ture 's  grandest  attributes  to  adapt  herself  to  circum- 
stances? Of  this  principle  most  tillers  of  the  soil  are 
unaware.  Did  not  the  Grand  Old  Lady  (Mrs.  Nature) 
evolve  statesmen  and  ring-tailed  monkeys  from  that 
one  same  unlikely-looking  critter,  the  missing  link? 
Suppose  that,  millions  of  years  ago,  a  pair  of  missing 
links  should  have  come  into  the  possession  of  an  ordi- 
nary, medium-sized  Melrose  farmer;  would  he  have 
had  the  forethought  to  breed  statesmen  from  them? 
Or  even  ring-tailed  monkeys?  Decidedly  no!  But 
some  one  gave  the  link  a  chance.  Hence,  dear  reader, 
you  and  I.  And  hence,  I,  a  story-writer,  a  producer 
of  fiction,  would  take  Nature  out  of  the  rut,  and  ask 
her  to  work  at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  rain  or  shine. 

When  the  first  leaf  points  should  sparkle  greenishly 
from  the  sod,  of  course  their  identity  would  be  un- 
known to  me.  A  prosaic  or  imitative  mind  would 
think  of  tabbing  the  whereabouts  of  each  with  a 
stake  in  the  ground.  Not  I.  My  carrot  seeds  should 
be  sown  in  the  form  of  letters  three  feet  square,  to 
spell  the  word  CAEEOTS.  Each  vegetable  would 
spell  itself  as  it  emerged  from  earth.  Some  letters 
might  appear  sooner  than  others  like  the  incandescent 
lights  of  an  advertising  sign,  causing  then  the  soul 
to  speculate,  until  the  whole  world  be  displayed  in 
verdure.  This  is  a  fine  blending  of  literature  and 
agriculture.  In  the  rear  was  a  rise  in  the  ground, 


16  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

which  I  sowed  with  sweet  pea  in  the  motto  of  my 
domain,  PROCRASTINATION.  They  might,  in  time, 
grow  luxuriantly,  perhaps  in  ineligible  yet  fragrant 
publication  of  the  word,  and  if  "Procrastination" 
could  not  be  read  in  the  tangled  vines,  it  could  be 
smelled  by  anyone  standing  near  the  blossoms. 
Around  them;  I  provided  a  border  of  cucumbers,  in 
honor  of  their  proverbial  coolness.  This  proverbial 
coolness  would  also  make  good  salad. 

Such  rural  innocence  put  me  in  some  sympathy  with 
the  dog  Eowdy,  which  I  had  bought  in  the  City. 
Rowdy  was  a  Gordon  setter.  He  was  an  old-style 
Gordon,  without  modern  improvements,  in  ideas  or 
curve  of  the  tail;  wouldn't  wear  a  collar,  and  had  the 
peculiarity  that  he  would  never  eat  when  anybody 
was  looking.  Only  circumstantial  evidence  supported 
the  fact  that  he  devoured  the  miscellany  he  carried  to 
a  secluded  spot.  Rowdy  like  myself  knew  little  of 
country  affairs.  He  had  never  seen  a  chicken  except 
in  the  form  of  scraps  from  the  table;  never  beheld  a 
cow  save  in  the  shape  of  a  sirloin  bone.  It  was  to  be 
pardoned  in  him,  therefore,  that  when  he  first  went 
sight-seeing  among  these  bucolic  brutes,  he  did  not 
recognize  them,  misunderstood  the  situation,  and 
scrambled  after  the  chickens  as  if  in  vengeance  of 
some  ancient  grudge.  The  hens  on  their  part  were 
adepts  in  the  art  of  excitement,  and  harum-scarumed 
in  such  confusion  that  I  thrilled  lest  they  injure  in- 
ternally whatever  eggs  they  were  about  to  lay.  When 
my  fingers  were  finally  clutched  about  Rowdy's  neck, 
he  struggled  in  righteous  anger.  But  I  gave  him  a 
beating  that  made  him  grovel  like  a  serpent.  From 
that  moment,  one  of  the  great  pleasures  in  Rowdy's 
life  was  watching  these  fowls. ,  He  would  enter  the 
enclosure,  sit  up  and  gaze  at  them  like  an  old  man 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  17 

near  boys  at  play.  Frequently  his  eye  would  catch  a 
leghorn,  towards  whose  scratching  and  strutting  his 
head  would  incline  in  studious  wonder.  When  weary 
of  one  position,  he  would  trot  off  to  another,  take  his 
seat  as  before  and  resume  the  surveillance  with  all  his 
canine  soul.  Often  of  mornings,  when  I  went  outside, 
there  would  be  Eowdy  watching  the  chickens  at  a  dis- 
tance and  proudly  airing  his  tongue. 

On  the  day  of  this  first  poultry  lesson,  we  continued 
our  tour  of  inspection  to  the  pasturage.  I  had  desired 
to  do  something  in  literature  that  day,  so  as  to  lure 
the  rural  Muse  from  the  beginning,  yet  felt  the  advisa- 
bility of  an  early  acquaintance  with  all  my  posses- 
sions. For  unto  the  bull  I  had  increased  admiration 
ever  since  naming  him  Minotaur.  Though  lacking  the 
half  human  make-up  of  the  monster  of  Crete,  he  had 
all  the  grand,  grisly  malice  of  the  Cretan  bull;  and 
only  opportunity,  it  seemed,  was  needed  to  bring  out 
his  profoundly  evil  nature.  To  the  cow  I  gave  the 
appellation  of  lo.  Her  meditative  expression,  which 
I  have  previously  noted,  could  not  but  suggest  the 
melancholies  of  the  girl  whom  Juno  had  wittily  meta- 
morphosed into  a  cow.  The  calf  went  by  the  simple 
name  of  Veal,  though  Bones  or  Slats  might  have  de- 
scribed him  more  accurately.  Veal  was  a  sad  case, 
with  very  little  inside.  He  was  shaped  like  a  bicycle 
crate  wrapped  in  a  couch  cover,  but  was  much  flatter 
on  one  side  than  the  other,  and  grew  to  look  more 
like  a  camel  every  day.  The  saddest  part  of  it  was 
his  superabundant  and  superfluous  jollity,  acting,  he 
did,  as  if  inhabiting  an  earthly  Paradise.  I  suspected 
Veal  of  not  being  right  in  his  mind.  He  was  more 
than  absent-minded,  lightheaded  or  humorous.  The 
most  charitable  word  that  could  be  used  for  him  is 
"eccentric."  His  susceptibility  to*  playing  tag  and 


18  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

hide-and-seek  with  every  passing  insect,  leaf,  piece  of 
paper  or  apparition  was  not  reassuring.  He  was  get- 
ting too  old  for  it.  The  time  was  approaching  when 
he  should  be  valuable  for  breeding  purposes. 
He  certainly  was  tall  enough;  taller  than  his  father 
already.  Yet,  somehow,  I  predicted  he  would  never 
look  like  a  bull.  Some  constitutional  depravity  of 
his  left  eyelid  caused  it  to  droop  with  a  most  sala- 
cious wink ;  and  his  legs  were  toggle-jointed.  Sell 
him  for  veal?  He  .had  hardly  enough  flesh  to  keep 
his  bones  in  place,  especially  on  the  left  side.  Be- 
holding Veal  gambol  on  the  green  (yellow  at  that 
time  of  the  year),  I  could  not  but  think  that  with  his 
every  move  he  was  gambling  with  Death,  and  that 
the  silver  cord  of  his  life  would  be  loosened  or  the 
golden  bowl  be  broken.  Still  his  backbone  held  to- 
gether under  the  stress,  though  I  sometimes  thought 
it  would  fall  out.  The  only  explanation  I  could  offer 
was  that  he  was  extra  fine  and  strong  in  the  gristle. 
However,  he  was  distinctly  not  a  literary  man's  cow. 
He  could  never  pose  as  the  Monarch  of  the  Herd  for 
my  artist  friends. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  Veal,  Eowdy  lay  down  to  be 
whipped.  He  had  sinned  in  thought  and  was  con- 
science-stricken. In  a  spirit  of  kindness  I -bade  Rowdy 
to  arise  and  I  petted  him.  Kindness  is  frequently 
misinterpreted.  I  am  quite  willing  to  believe  that  my 
act  was  mistaken  by  Eowdy  in  good  faith.  He  may 
have  interpreted  my  caress  as  meaning  that  the  calf 
and  I  were  sworn  enemies  and  that  he,  Eowdy,  being 
my  ally,  should  do  his  duty.  At  any  rate,  he  started 
after  Veal  without  more  ado  than  a  limpid  snort  of 
joy. 

I  have  seen  the  ablest  and  most  grotesque  farce- 
comedians  of  the  day;  have  witnessed  the  burlesque 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  19 

work  of  vaudeville  artists  who  made  audiences 
chuckle  and  throb  down  to  their  very  stomachs  and 
back.  But  never  have  I  witnessed  anything  as  funny 
as  Veal's  untutored  efforts  to  escape.  Nothing  within 
the  scope  of  human  endeavor  could  approach  it.  I 
leaned  against  the  barbed  wire  and  laughed  a  farm- 
ful.  The  laugh  dissolved  when  Minotaur  took  up  the 
clew  and  followed  his  imperiled  offspring.  Minotaur's 
start  was  colossal.  For  a  two-horned,  bellowing  in- 
troduction to  a  catastrophe,  it  was  all  that  the  heart 
could  desire.  As  a  calamity -howler,  and  the  calamity 
with  him,  Minotaur  was  a  success.  There  was  a 
golden  cloud  of  dust  with  a  dark  infusion  of  bull,  as 
he  glutted  his  lust  for  speed  in  Rowdy's  trail. 

Veal  made  as  straight  for  the  pig-pen  as  his  ill- 
balanced  carcass  could  go.  As  an  exhibition  of  pure 
motion,  without  any  affectation,  it  was  extemporane- 
ous, but  none  the  less  proficient.  It  w^as  artless — al- 
most piquant.  The  crash  with  which  he  struck  the 
fence  made  me  expect  to  see  him  snap  into  half  a 
dozen  fragments.  There  was  an  explosion  of  nails 
and  splinters.  Through  it  flew  Veal.  He  did  not 
snap.  He  was  a  contortionist.  The  fence  gave  way, 
and  Veal  was  soon  struggling  amid  the  swine,  with 
Rowdy  chewing  him  into  convulsions.  He  could 
scarcely  have  given  more  than  seventeen  fast  chews 
when  Minotaur  roared  into  the  muddy  imbroglio.  The 
next  instantaneous  tableau  was  like  one  of  those  up- 
heavals of  Nature  in  which  man  is  powerless  to  inter- 
vene. The  moment  afterwards,  Rowdy  was  sprawl- 
ingly  silhouetted  against  the  pale  blue  sky  and  came 
to  earth  with  a  thud  of  astonishment.  He  looked 
around;  then  took  up  a  position  at  my  side.  The 
rapidity  with  which  Rowdy  was  learning  evidently 
was  going  to  be  a  strain  on  him.  With  humankind, 


20  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

disaster  oft  follows  curiosity;  with  Rowdy,  it  was  im- 
petuous disaster  first,  and  subsequent  curiosity  en- 
joyed with  leisure  and  calm. 

Most  people  do  not  know  that  swine  have  fiery  tem- 
pers. They  are  accredited,  the  pigs,  with  a  sort  of 
Chinese  peacefulness.  I  did  not  foresee  that  they 
would  offer  any  organized  resistance  to  Minotaur's 
progress.  I  thought  that,  in  their  vulgar  haste  to 
save  themselves,  they  might  unintentionally  get  into 
his  way.  Their  home  was  being  invaded.  Right  was 
on  their  side.  But  Minotaur  was  not  in  an  analytical 
mood.  Three  of  the  porks  came  out  of  the  riot  by 
the  sky  route — one  of  them  gored  beyond  repair,  and 
he  fatly  breathed  out  his  last  hold  on  the  terrestrial 
atmosphere. 

Minotaur's  blood  now  had  the  furies.  Following 
some  red  flag  of  aroused  proclivities,  he  made  his  re- 
sounding way  to  the  chicken  yard.  Through  the 
wire  screen  fence  he  screwed,  and  when  inside,  made 
a  circle  of  the  arena.  Here  he  had  not  long  to  wait 
for  bloody  business.  Minotaur  was  scarcely  within 
the  fortifications  of  the  feathered  tribe  when  a  large, 
flamboyant,  all-colored  rooster  with  flowing  tail  of 
Gobelin  green  and  Tyrian  purple,  flew  at  him  and  with 
one  dig  of  the  spur,  stripped  open  the  bovine  nostril, 
blood  following. 

The  victor  of  the  pig-pen  stooped  and  pawed  my 
part  of  Melrose. 

"Go  to  it,  0  Hector  of  the  scarlet  helm,"  I  yelled 
to  the  rooster. 

Hector  spread  his  wings  and  crouched.  He  had  no 
thought  of  retreating.  Behind  him,  the  hens  darted 
hither  and  thither,  clucking  in  terror.  On  came  Mino- 
taur, with  enough  momentum  to  gore  a  lion.  Hector, 
with  comb  red-swelling  and  translucent  in  the  sun- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW     21 

light,  met  the  attack,  but  was  carried  backward  about 
four  bull-lengths.  This  distance  he  had  ridden  atop 
the  bull's  muzzle,  scraping  and  spurring  the  soft  nose, 
and  with  bill  stabbing  his  antagonist  about  the  eyes. 
.He  had  only  to  alight  at  the  end  of  the  scrimmage. 

Already  the  personal  animosities  among  my  domes- 
tic animals  had  cost  me,  in  casualties  one  hog,  and  two 
fences  among  the  injured.  Two  of  my  bravest  were 
now  fighting  it  out  for  supremacy.  At  the  finish,  no 
doubt,  the  courage  and  value  of  one  of  them  would 
be  depreciated.  But  the  novelty  of  the  conflict  made 
me  feel  like  a  grand  stand  of  spectators.  Everybody 
was  wild  with  excitement ;  everybody  arose  from  their 
seats  and  glared  at  the  fray.  Then,  as  the  two  com- 
batants stood  opposed,  ready  for  another  rush,  the 
whole  grand  stand,  constituted  by  myself,  arose  as  one 
man  and  shouted. 

"Stay  with  it,  0  feathered  Hector  with  the  helmet 
comb!" 

Rowdy  danced  around  with  delight,  and  barked 
furiously.  The  dust  smoked  between  the  cock  and 
bull.  Clucks,  barks,  bellows,  gutterals,  squeals,  flut- 
terings  and  upsettings  of  pans — more  noise  than  a 
Chinese  funeral — showed  how  the  dumb  brutes  were 
worked  up  over  this  rural  sporting  event. 

Minotaur  was  surprised ;  and  Veal,  probably  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  looked  sedate.  Blowing  the  blood 
from  his  nostrils,  rolling  his  eyes  and  larruping  his 
tail,  with  lowered  head  the  bull  again  made  for  the 
brilliant  cock  that  in  the  sunlight  shone  as  if  made  of 
many  colored  metals  and  shells.  Minotaur's  idea  evi- 
dently was  by  added  swiftness  to  horn  his  nimble  ad- 
versary. But  when  the  two  came  together  again, 
Hector  secured  a  foothold,  gripping  his  claws  into  the 
bull's  muzzle,  tearing  them  with  trenchant  spurs 


22  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

dawking  the  ox-eyes  with  rapid  wing  beats.  It  was 
useless  for  the  quadruped  to  continue  the  engage- 
ment. He  might  as  well  have  fought  the  south  wind 
for  all  his  attack  was  worth ;  in  the  meanwhile  he  was 
getting  the  worst  of  it. 

Almost  blinded,  Minotaur  took  to  flight,  and  the 
gaudy  victor  flew  from  the  aggressor's  nose  as  de- 
feat plunged  back  through  the  wire  screen. 

Then  Hector  gave  his  college  yell,  went  to  a  fence 
and  cockodoodled  himself  the  winner. 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  I  furthered  Pacific  Coast 
Literature  by  repairing  fences  and  exercised  my 
imagination  by  wondering  what  to  do  with  the  de- 
ceased hog. 

Rowdy  kept  close  to  me.  In  his  demonstrative  way 
he  was  plainly  saying,  Isn't  it  great  to  live  on  a 
ranch  ? 


THE  BOMBASTIC  FARMER. 

One  morning  I  was  writing  a  story  for  McMunper's 
Magazine.  After  penning  the  first  five  lines,  my 
thoughts  began  to  fly  to  the  utmost  parts  of  earth  and 
to  unknown  points  of  interest  elsewhere.  I  seldom 
know  where  my  thoughts  go.  Often  they  leave  me  in 
the  morning  without  saying  good-bye  or  telling  when 
they  will  return.  Frequently  they  stay  out  all  night. 
They  ramble  through  enchanted  castles  in  mystic  re- 
gions far  from  the  world,  where  golden  pottery  dis- 
charges inspiring  perfumes  yet  combined  with  odors 
that  lull  the  delighted  brain.  There  beautiful  ap- 
paritions smile  in  the  shades  and  vanish  in  the  sun, 
while  magicians  tell  poor  authors  where  to  find  a 
cavern  of  gold. 

One  by  one  occurred  these  fancy  flights  until 
there  was  not  enough  thought  left  to  write  the  next 
word  of  my  story.  I  couldn't  conjure  the  simplest 
phrase  or  think  of  a  suitable  preposition.  So  I  went 
outside  for  a  stroll  on  my  grounds,  that  the  creative 
mood  might  return  to  me. 

Some  people  do  not  believe  in  a  creative  mood.  I 
know  there  is  one,  because  I  have  seen  it  abscond 
many  a  time.  Qn  this  morning,  I  watched  it  leaping 
over  the  skyline,  waving  me  adieu  from  the  tip  of  its 
nose. 

The  country  is  ideal  for  such  impractible  tendencies, 
even  removing  the  sense  of  self-criticism.  It  is  a 
pretty  place  where  one  can  still  his  conscience  by 
smelling  a  flower. 

With  my  farm  there  was  but  one  thing  wrong;  that 
was  an  old  farmer  who  used  to  come  and  lean  over  my 
western  fence.  He  was  wont  to  lean  his  elbows  on  the 


24  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

top  rail  and  observe  me.  When  his  all-too-plain  in- 
quisitiveness  was  satisfied,  he  would  withdraw.  Al- 
most every  day  he  came  to  fulfill  his  curiosity;  which 
must  have  been  capacious,  for  he  looked  a  curiosity 
altogether.  From  the  hands  that  fumbled  a  pipe  to 
the  whiskers  in  his  ears,  he  was  curious.  Barely  over 
five  feet  in  height  and  dirty  as  a  potato.  It  grew  on 
me  that  in  the  course  of  time  I  would  have  to  become 
aware  of  this  man's  existence. 

Walking  up  and  down  in  a  scientific  manner  and 
coming  nearer  to  him  at  every  turn,  I  at  last  drew  up 
in  surprise  within  a  few  feet  of  him  and  exclaimed: 

"Good  morning !" 

He  nodded  philosophically,  as  if  the  acknowledge- 
ment of  my  salute  was  acquiescing  in  something  that 
required  much  wisdom  to  appreciate. 

We  joined  in  a  few  other  simple  views,  with  the 
same  profundity  on  his  part.  Then  he  asked  me : 

"Had  much  experience  at  soiling  cows?" 

"Did  you  say  spoilin'g ? ' '  I  requeried. 

"No;  soiling." 

It  was  a  queer  word  to  use  if  he  referred  to  Mino- 
taur's nose.  But  he  looked  like  a  New  Englander, 
and  I  thought  this  might  be  the  right  word  in  some 
dialectish  hole  of  New  Hampshire. 

"No,"  I  replied  mysteriously;  "I  have  not  soiled 
many  cows'  noses;  but  I  have  soiled  a  few  men's 
noses  in  much  the  same  way." 

He  looked  as  if  his  previous  opinion  of  my  ignor- 
ance made  astonishment  inane;  so  added: 

"If  you're  raising  for  the  market,  it's  better  to 
stall  them  than  soil  'em." 

Thus  I  learned  the  term  for  feeding  cows  from  the 
soil. 

"Perhaps,"  I  remarked  calmly  in  thankless  return 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  25 

for  the  word,  "that's  the  matter  with  that  calf  of 
mine. ' ' 

"0'  course!  Feed  him  on  mangel-wurzels.  That'll 
fix  him  in  three  weeks." 

There  it  was  again.  I  suspected  mangel-wurzels  to 
be  a  nonsense  word  that  he  had  coined  for  a  tender- 
foot's wonder.  So  I  replied  warily: 

"Mangel-wurzels  might  fatten  him  on  one  side 
only;  especially  as  he  seems  to  have  a  predisposition 
that  way." 

"I'll  come  over  and  take  a  look  at  him,"  said  Mc- 
Cracken, for  such,  0  large  and  intelligent  reader,  I 
eventually  found  to  be  the  name  of  my  neighbor. 

McCracken  was  an  agricultural  critic  unequalled 
by  any  literary  purist  I  had  ever  known.  It  was 
useless  to  argue  with  him  that  mine  was  a  short-story 
farm,  a  literary  acre,  a  Parnassian  sod,  where  the 
vegetables  were  merely  tolerated  for  their  uses.  Agri- 
culture was  to  him  the  basic  principle  of  the  universe ; 
and  while  he  granted  me  privilege  to  write,  regarded 
literature  as  a  by-product  of  leisure,  akin  to  whittling 
sticks. 

McCracken 's  first  objection  to  my  premises  was  the 
soil.  This  he  kicked  indignantly,  making  profane 
comments  at  the  condition  of  the  sod  as  it  spurted 
from  his  shoe-thrusts. 

I  protested  that  I  had  no  hand  in  the  creation  of 
the  world,  and  had  not  even  looked  on  while  Melrose 
was  being  made ;  so  that  it's  soil  was  no  fault  of  mine. 

"Irrigation,  man,  and  fertilizers!  Can't  you  see 
your  land  needs  dressing?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  should  tamper  with 
the  Creator's  handiwork  and  try  to  rehabilitate  my 
part  of  the  world?"  I  asked  with  warmth. 

"Well,  this  part  of  the  world  might  have  been  in- 


26  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

tended  for  California  poppies;  but  you've  planted 
watermelons  on  it,"  he  retorted  in  a  voice  that  might 
have  been  called  dry  had  he  not  simultaneously 
squirted  a  gob  of  tobacco  juice  on  the  ground. 

"How  do  you  know  I  planted  watermelons?" 

He  stooped  and  with  knobby  finger  prodded  from 
the  ground  the  first  sparkling  precious  green  thing 
that  had  answered  my  artistic  seed  sowing. 

I  marveled  at  his  knowledge,  but  remarked: 

"There's  a  fine  large  juicy  twenty-five-cent  water- 
melon of  the  future  gone  to  Gehenna." 

"Hell!  No  watermelons '11  grow  here,"  he  replied 
with  disgust,  tearing  the  leaf-bud  apart  and  throwing 
it  back  to  earth.  "I  can  see  that  straight  as  a  split 
in  shingle." 

"Maybe  a  little  watermelon." 

' i  Naw !  Not  even  a  little  one ;  not  even  one  the  size 
of  a  cucumber.  When  those  melons 'd  be  ripe,  you 
couldn't  tell  them  from  gooseberries.  He  spilled  some 
more  quadruple  extract  of  chewing  tobacco,  wiping 
an  Oom  Paul  beard  with  his  hand,  and  his  hand  on 
the  seat  of  his  blue  overalls. 

"How  would  this  land  do  for  pineapple  growing?" 
I  asked  in  an  offhand  way. 

t  i  What !  Pinnyapples  ?  Them  things  they  sell  on 
wagons?  Well,  a  man  o'  your  experience  might  grow 
wedding  cakes  first.  They  're  not  worth  notice  any- 
how. No  respectable  farmer  would  fool  with  pinny- 
apples.  I  had  ten  years'  erperience  with  two  acres  of 
'em  down  Los  Angeles  way.  But  I  never  saw  any 
pinnyapples.  You  might  try  'em,  though.  If  you're 
willing  to  give  them  nine  hours  a  day  for  seven  or 
eight  years,  ye  might  develop  a  half  yer  acre  at  a  cost 
of  about  a  thousand  dollars  and  sell  about  nine  hun- 
dred dollars  in  fruit.  And  if  you  got  no  fruit,  you'd 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  27 

know  just  why;  which  is  a  fine  thing,  too.  I  know 
why  I  didn't  get  any.  So  I'm  satisfied.  It  also  makes 
me  feel  satisfied  to  leave  them  alone. " 

" Can't  I  do  it  in  less  than  seven  years?" 

"Aw,  well,  ye  might  plant  the  suckers  and  get  a 
crop  in  about  fifteen  months;  but  you  woudn't  learn 
as  much  as  using  seed." 

"I  prefer  pineapples  to  pineapple  knowledge," 
said  I. 

"Yes;  some  people  are  that  carnal-minded  they 
never  take  any  interest  in  the  intellectual  side  of 
things.  But  the  location  ain't  proper  here.  The  loca- 
tion ought  to  be  somewhere  further  south.  You'd 
have  to  fix  up  the  soil;  and  then  the  climate  wouldn't 
be  right,  and  you'd  have  to  fix  up  the  climate  by 
building  sheds.  But  this  soil  around  here  ain't  right; 
there's  no  ammonia  in  it," 

"Ammonia!" 

"Yes;  you've  got  to  go  to  work  and  have  ammonia 
in  yer  fertilizer.  You  get  this  by  using  ingredients 
of  sulphate  of  ammonia  or  dried  blood  and  bone.  And 
then  you've  got  to  go  to  work  and  have  potash.  And 
then  you've  got  to  go  to  work  and  have  phosphoric 
acid,  which  you  can  get  from  fish  scraps.  This  gives 
the  flavor  to  the  pinnyapple.  I'd  have  had  the  finest 
flavored  fruit  on  the  market  if  they  had  flowered. 
But  I  didn't  have  the  fruit,  and  consequently  they 
had  no  flavor." 

"I  never  knew,"  said  I,  "that  fish  is  used  to  flavor 
pineapples. ' ' 

"They  is,  though,"  he  replied,  again  flavoring  my 
watermelons  with  tobacco.  "They  take  up  every- 
thing in  the  soil.  If  they  grew  right  here,  they  would 
taste  like  turnips  unless  they  were  fertilized." 

"Why   not   experiment   with    giving   them   a  rasp- 


28  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

berry  or  vanilla  flavor?"  I  rejoined.  ""Wouldn't  a 
little  absinthe  or  brandy  in  the  soil  be  a  good  thing? 
What  wonderful  invention  an  absinthe  pineapple 
would  be!" 

"Too  expensive  for  the  market,"  said  McCracken. 
"But  the  most  expensive  thing  about  pinnyapple 
growing  is  the  spiky  longleaf,  which  prevents  them 
from  growing  at  all.  The  leaves  come  long  and  curl 
in  at  the  edges,  choking  off  the  new  shoots.  The  plant 
lingers  along  for  about  two  years  and  then  dies,  un- 
less tanglefoot  has  killed  it  previously.  Then  they  are 
liable  to  catch  the  mealy  bugs  and  the  red  spiders  or 
the  scale,  or  they  get  the  wilts.  Anyway,  their  chances 
of  life  are  small.  You'd  have  as  much  chance  with 
pinnyapples  as  an  oyster  in  a  pig-sty." 

"Do  you  ever  intend  to  leave  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try?" I  asked  of  this  soul-destroying  pessimist. 

"Yes;  I'm  going  to  leave.  I  figure  on  getting  away 
from  this  part  of  the  country  in  about  five  years. 
Then  I'm  going  back  to  Iowa  and  grow  wheat.  Dad 
is  getting  pretty  old  now.  He'll  hardly  last  more'n 
five  years.  But  he's  good  for  that." 

"You're  very  slow  and  sure  in  your  calculations." 

"Yes;  I  always  go  slow,  and  I  calculate  every- 
thing. It's  better 'n  going  too  fast  to  see  what  you're 
doing.  I'll  never  break  a  record  and  I'll  never  break 
my  neck.  But  when  I  am  on  my  deathbed,  I  can  lay 
my  hand  on  my  heart  and  say  I  knew  a  whole  lot 
about  farming.  Wait  till  I  get  some  mangel-wurzels. 
I'll  make  that  veal  of  yours  take  on  weight  before 
morning." 

He  went  to  his  barn  and  returned  with  a  basketful. 

"They  look  like  old-fashioned  beets,"  said  I. 

"Some  call  them  beets  and  some  call  them  mangel- 
wurzels.  Mangel-wurzels  is  what  they  are." 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW     29 

We  repaired  to  the  cow-yard,  accompanied  by 
Rowdy.  McCracken  put  down  his  basket,  went  over 
to  Veal  and  thumped  him.  Veal  stood  the  diagnosis 
patiently.  Eowdy  threw  himself  into  the  air  with 
hallelujatic  transports  on  seeing  Veal  thus  jabbed. 
He  was  yelping  as  near  to  the  empyrean  blue  as  he 
could,  when  Minotaur,  with  a  roar  and  slap  of  the 
tongue,  bore  down  on  the  basket,  scattered  the  man- 
gel-wurzels  and  proceeded  quietly  to  eat  one.  Mc- 
Cracken brought  one  to  Veal,  while  lo,  with  a  soft 
lowing,  put  her  nose  against  another.  We  watched 
her  smell  it  for  about  a  minute  before  she  took  a  bite. 

McCracken  then  went  his  way,  and  I  to  my  story. 


THE  PATE  OP  MINOTAUR. 

I  intended,  as  soon  as  having  sold  a  few  stories  and 
made  the  bungalow  presentable,  to  entertain  a  few 
friends.  The  presentableness  was  not  yet  complete, 
when,  one  afternoon,  returning  from  a  walk  along  the 
Foothill  Boulevard,  I  found  this  notice  posted  on 
my  door. 

WARNING!  TAKE  HEED!!  BEWARE!!!  There 
will  be  a  house-warming  on  these  premises  next  Sun- 
day afternoon.  All  who  are  found  within  this  bunga- 
low will  be  entertained  to  death. 

By  order  of  the  PINK  HAND. 

" Wouldn't  that  warm  the  cockles  of  your  heart/' 
said  I  to  Rowdy. 

The  cockles  of  the  heart  is  a  cardiac  situation  that 
must  be  highly  interesting  to  all  of  us.  What  the 
cockles  are,  or  how  they  look,  I,  in  conjunction  with 
many  other  honest  folks,  never  knew.  Nor  had  I  ever 
heard  of  their  having  any  other  function  than  that  so 
often  referred  to.  The  only  act  they  are  known  to 
experience  is  to  be  warned.  No  one  has  ever  spoken 
of  the  cockles  of  the  heart  as  being  cooled.  Yet  they 
must  undergo  some  cooling  process  or  eventually  be- 
come so  hot  they  would  suffer  combustion  in  the  fre- 
quent warmings  that  a  generous  world  gives  them. 
However,  in  this  case,  without  knowing  just  what  the 
anatomical  phenomenon  consisted  of,  I  felt  the  cockles 
of  my  heart  duly  going  through  their  well  known  ob- 
ligation of  being  warmed. 

The  spritesome  Veal  had  already  taken  a  long 
course  of  mangel-wurzels  and,  incredible  as  it  may 
seem,  gained  about  twenty-five  pounds — worth  about 
8  cents  a  pound  when  dressed,  a  gain  of  about  $2, 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  31 

and  costing  McCracken  about  $3  in  mangel-wurzels. 
Veal  himself  seemed  astonished  at  the  change,  and 
lost  that  jaunty  air  with  which  he  was  wont  to  chase 
imaginary  butterflies.  His  flanks  filled  out  and  his 
legs  grew  shapely.  Frequently,  when  I  entered  the 
yard,  he  would  gaze  at  me  solemnly,  as  if  to  reprove 
me  for  the  puzzling  change  that  had  been  wrought  in 
him.  His  calfhood  days  were  drawing  to  a  close,  and 
McCracken  was  clamoring  for  his  life.  McCracken 
declared  I  had  given  Veal  the  only  practical  name  on 
the  farm,  and  described  to  me  how  finely  he  would 
split  the  carcass  from  throat  to  tail,  remove  every- 
thing except  the  kidneys  and  hang  him  up  where  I 
could  cut  off  a  leg  or  a  few  ribs,  and  he,  McCracken, 
could  get  back  the  value  of  his  mangel-wurzels.  But 
I  had  already  trained  Veal  to  give  a  paw,  or  a  hoof, 
and  hated  to  think  of  a  piece  of  him  in  the  oven  or  a 
slice  of  him,  cold-roast,  on  a  plate.  I  knew  that  a  dab 
of  horse-radish  over  such  portion  of  him  would  not 
obliterate  the  many  fond  memories  and  prankish  ways 
of  this  young  bovine.  So  I  pleaded  for  clemency  in 
Veal's  behalf  and  offered  to  pay  for  what  wurzels  he 
had  eaten. 

On  Sunday,  shortly  after  noon,  the  members  of  the 
Pink  Hand  Band,  true  to  their  warning,  assailed  my 
bungalow,  with  many  packages,  which  they  unloaded 
in  the  kitchen.  There  were  all  sorts  of  useful  and  use- 
less viands,  glasses,  plates  and  cigar  trays;  also  a  few 
bottles  and  decanters,  to  feast  amid  half  of  which 
would  have  been  enough  to  give  one  the  heart-burn; 
which  is  the  second  stage  of  warming  the  cockles  of 
the  heart.  But  the  one  who  could  do  this  with  most 
despatch  was  not  yet  arrived,  and  I  was  relieved  when 
told  she  was  coming  on  the  next  train. 

"Some  one  must  go  down  to  the  train  and  meet 


32  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

Clara,"  was  a  remark  I  fished  up  from  a  flood  of 
voices. 

"I  wonder  who  that  some  one  is,"  said  I,  putting  on 
my  hat. 

The  local  was  just  bumping  into  the  mid-section  of 
Melrose  when  I  came  alongside  to  assist  Clara  from 
the  steps. 

"Oh,  goody,  goody,  you  haven't  grown  a  beard; 
and  you  wrote  me  you  had,"  she  exclaimed. 

"Is  that  all  you  notice  about  me?" 

"And  you  are  not  all  full  of  holes  where  the  bull 
hooked  you." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"And  you  don't  carry  samples  of  wild  oats  in  your 
hair." 

"Those,"  I  reminded  her,  "are  things  that  are  not. 
What  is  that  which  is?" 

"Well,  what?" 

"Don't  you  observe  my  fine  coat  of  tan?" 

"You  had  that  in  the  City,  and  vest  and  trousers 
too." 

"It  seems  to  be,"  said  I,  "that  you  are  unduly 
frivilous  at  beholding  the  fine  hue  of  glowing  health 
with  which  Nature  has  tinted  my  ardent  young 
cheeks  and  made  me  illustrate  the  heritage  of 
strength  which  is  mine." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  looked  a  trifle  pale." 

"Though  you  are  not  observant,  you  might  at  least 
be  generous,"  I  rejoined.  "Did  I  come  to  the  country 
to  look  pale?  Do  I  repair  fences,  climb  to  the  roof 
of  the  bungalow  to  stop  up  leaks,  crawl  down  peril- 
ously to  prohibit  a  fight  among  my  domestic  animals, 
breathe  all  the  fresh  air  I  can,  and  feed  on  the  nurtri- 
tious  products  of  the  soil,  merely  to  look  pale  ? ,  Nay, 
not  so." 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  33 

Clara  had  a  temperament  in  which  I  interested  my- 
self at  first  to  see  if  she  could  be  induced  to  praise 
anything.  Her  approbation  was  as  difficult  to  raise  as 
pineapples  in  snow.  After  studying  her  for  about  a 
year,  I  made  a  fad  of  remembering  her  innocent  aloof- 
ness, and  later  found  it  difficult  to  give  up  the  study. 

She  had  a  fondness  for  all  manners  of  danger,  al- 
ways insisting  that  dangers  are  but  imaginary.  When 
brought  face  to  face  with  her  peril,  after  the  most 
detailed  warnings  from  everybody,  she  would  mani- 
fest paroxysmal  surprise  at  the  outcome  and  claim  to 
have  been  deluded  by  something  or  other. 

I  remember  the  time  she  would  not  believe  that 
slow  and  cautious  practice  is  necessary  before  making 
a  headlong  dash  on  roller  skates.  I  recall  the  occasion 
when  she  had  no  faith  in  the  principle  that  rocking  a 
boat  will  upset  it.  I  recollect  when  she  confidently 
made  lunches  of  such  odds  and  ends  as  pink  and 
green  salads,  rainbow  ice-cream,  sparkling  lemonade, 
gaudy  candies  and  ornate  cakes.  Her  way  out  of  all 
these  difficulties  was  the  shortest  and  quickest;  and 
she  was  a  spectacular  if  not  an  efficient  sprinter. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  farm,  Clara  could  not  be 
induced  to  go  around  to  the  front  gate,  but  must 
short-cut  it  through  the  cow-field. 

" Bulls  never  hook  unless  you're  afraid  of  them/' 
she  asserted. 

At  that  moment,  Minotaur  turned  and  saw  us. 

"Will  he  hook?"  whispered  Clara. 

"Whatever  a  bull  ever  did,  Minotaur  will  do,"  I 
attested. 

"If  he  hooks,  take  him  by  the  horns,"  she  advised. 
"Everybody  knows  that  if  you  take  a  bull  by  the 
horns  he  is  conquered." 

"That,"  said  I,  "is  for  a  man  with  plenty  of  time. 


34  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

I  wouldn't  care  to  hold  a  bull  by  the  horns  all  after- 
noon while  his  temper  is  cooling." 

Minotaur  took  several  steps  towards  us. 

He  had  hardly  done  so,  when,  Clara,  with  a  victim- 
ized shriek,  fled,  accelerating  her  departure  with  long 
repititions  of  her  strating  cry.  It  brought  the  crowd 
of  house-warmers  to  the  rear  of  the  bungalow. 

"Here,  you  bull,"  said  I,  assuming  a  commanding 
tone;  "lie  down!" 

Minotaur  never  did  have  the  proper  respect  for 
me.  He  now  began  to  bellow  with  the  seeming  in- 
tention of  frightening  me  off  the  field.  I  recollected 
his  tossing  of  the  pigs  and  Eowdy,  and  now  was  he 
desirous  of  substantiating  his  claim  to  the  champion- 
ship of  the  farm  by  defeating  me.  But  I  would  not 
run  from  a  brute  that  had  had  to  scuttle  from  the  as- 
sault of  a  barnyard  rooster.  Besides,  the  look  in  his 
eye  was  so  malignant  that  I  felt,  should  I  run,  I  would 
lose  all  mastery  over  him  and  the  fun  of  owning  him 
be  lost  forever. 

All  this  I  thought  in  a  few  seconds;  upon  which, 
Minotaur  charged  at  me  with  genuine  fervor.  I 
jumped  aside,  but  drew  my  revolver  in  anticipation  of 
his  closer  aim.  He  was  a  fairly  valuable  bull,  and,  at 
another  time,  I  might  have  felt  constrained  to  save  the 
life  of  my  property  by  running  away  with  my  own. 
But  at  that  moment,  something  almost  human  and 
Minotaurish  in  his  rolling  eye  and  ponderous  roar, 
angered  me.-  It  was  the  climax  of  the  struggle  be- 
tween the  human  and  the  brute  creation.  And  all 
that  went  through  my  mind  in  another  second. 

On  he  came.    I  gave  him  a  last  chance. 

"Whscrowk!"  I  hollered,  meaning  that  he  should 
back  down. 

I  would  use  gentleness  with  him  to  the  last.     I  in- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  35 

tended  to  convey  to  him  that  it  was  his  duty  as  a 
brute  to  desist  in  his  attack.  I  kept  my  finger  on  the 
trigger.  If  I  could  get  the  idea  gently  into  his  head — 
very  well;  if  not,  I  would  rid  him  of  his  own  pesti- 
ferous ideas  by  blowing  out  his  whole  brainful. 
Either  way  suited  me  as  I  dodged  from  his  mutinous 
onslaught. 

He  came  again,  and  I  fired.  The  ball  splashed  be- 
tween his  eyes. 

Minotaur  tumbled  to  the  sod. 

I  looked  for  Clara.  She  had  just  cleared  the  fence 
and  was  still  running  and  screaming.  Before  I  took 
the  hurdle,  she  had  already  passed  the  beer  bottle  at 
the  head  of  Appian  Way  and  was  making  towards 
Pegasus  Alley,  which  still  extended  to  the  legs  of  the 
same  horse  in  the  same  back  yard. 

I  hurried  after  the  girl  and  roared  for  her  to  stop; 
but  with  my  every  roar,  she  increased  her  speed  and 
shriek.  Finally  I  caught  up,  lay  my  hand  on  her 
shoulder  and  brought  her  to  a  standstill.  She  gave 
a  yell  and  fell  into  my  arms. 

" What's  the  matter?"  I  asked  hoarsely.  "Why 
didn't  you  stop  when  I  called  you?" 

"I  thought  you  were  the  bull,"  whispered  Clara. 

"Yonder  lies  the  bull." 

"He  looks  dead." 

"I  had  to  kill  him." 

"With  a  blow  of  your  fist?"  She  beheld  me  proudly. 

"No;  I  had  to  shoot  him." 

"Oh,  what  a  shame!  He  never  hurt  anybody. 
Maybe  he  was  only  trying  to  fool  us." 

"One  can't  meditate  upon  those  things  when  only 
a  fraction  of  a  second  is  given  him. ' ' 

"What   a   red   shame!"   resounded    from   the   red 


36  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

mouths  of  all  my  guests  on  our  return.    "Why  didn't 
you  run  away?" 

"It  is  useless  to  expostulate  now,"  I  replied.  "The 
bull  is  dead;  long  live  the  bull."  And  I  patted  Veal 
on  the  head — Minotaur  II,  who  was,  with  lo,  gloating 
over  the  deceased  sire.  I  continued:  "He  would  have 
killed  somebody,  perhaps  a  talented  person,  sooner 
or  later.  I  had  long  made  up  my  mind  to  have  that 
bull  for  dinner." 

"You  can't  eat  a  bull,"  interposed  Clara. 

"You  can't,  eh?  Well,  just  watch  me.  I'll  eat  that 
bull  if  I  have  to  crunch  each  mouthful  fifty-seven  • 
times.  Or,  if  I  cannot  eat  him,  McCracken  can.  You 
don't  know  neighbor  McCracken.  He'll  be  able  to 
eat  that  bull  if  it  can  be  eaten  at  all.  McCracken  can 
do  anything  about  a  farm.  If  he  doesn't  eat  every 
decent  part  of  Minotaur,  I'll  have  lost  faith  in  scien- 
tific agriculture.  Let  it  come  ta  the  worst,  and  I'll 
grow  pineapples  and  use  Minotaur  for  fertilizer. 
Blood  and  bon^,  you  know  (no;  of  course  you  don't 
know;  you  are  ignorant  of  agricultural  methods)— 
but  they  make  ammonia,  which  flavors  the  pineapples." 

"I  think  he  is  right,"  said  Clara,  firmly. 

Several  entered  the  kitchen  to  prepare  the  banquet. 
I  showed  others  around  the  establishment. 

"These  animals,  to  your  right,"  I  said,  "are  pigs, 
sometimes  called  hogs.  In  agricultural  communities, 
such  as  you  now  behold,  they  are  termed  swine. 
From  swine,  we  get  many  valuable  articles,  such  as 
pork,  lard,  bacon,  ham  and  eggs,  pig's  feet,  etc. 
Sausage  is  one  of  the  largest  industries  in  which 
swine  are  interested.  The  sows'  ears  are  used  largely 
in  the  manufacture  of  silk  purses.  These  brutes  are 
stubborn  and  have  great  will  power.  Out  of  their 
will  power,  pig-iron  is  made. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  37 

"On  your  left  is  the  chicken  park.  I  have  made  a 
special  study  of  fowls  and  found  them  worthy  of 
pursuit.  In  my  young  days,  restaurant  proprietors 
used  to  inform  me  that  the  only  edible  parts  of  the 
chicken  are  the  gizzard  and  leg.  This  is  an  exploded 
theory.'7 

Suddenly  a  young  woman  came  running  out  of  the 
house  crying  "The  bungalow's  on  fire!" 

How  quickly  a  few  words  can  make  one  feel  differ- 
ent and  change  his  sportive  tongue. 

In  a  trice  we  all  seemed  whipped  by  fiends.  Im- 
mediately we  were  in  the  kitchen,  wiiere  the  garbage 
pail  full  of  wrapping  paper  was  ablaze.  The  table- 
cloth was  flaming.  A  heap  of  boxes  in  which  the  vis- 
itors had  brought  dainties  were  mixed  in  the  tiny 
conflagration.  One  of  the  men  had  endeavored  to  use 
his  coat  to  extinguish  the  tablecloth,  and  both  were 
burning.  (Not  the  man  and  the  tablecloth,  but  the 
tablecloth  and  coat.)  Just  as  I  entered,  a  lamp  was 
knocked  over  and  its  kerosene  setting  afire  the  wall 
below  the  window. 

Four  men  were  trying  to  draw  water  with  one 
bucket  from  the  sink  faucet.  I  made  a  dash  to  get 
the  garden  hose,  and  was  speeding  outside  the  door- 
way when  Rowdy  got  between  my  legs,  twisted  me. 
around  and  I  fell  to  the  floor  of  the  veranda.  Rowdy 
gave  a  yelp  and  went.  As  two  sweet-cheeked  young 
women  helped  me  up,  I  heard  one  of  then  say : 

"Poor  fellow!" 

To  which  the  other  responded:  "And  he  was  so 
proud  of  his  bungalow,  too ! ' ' 

Turning  to  look,  I  saw  the  whole  westward  wall  of 
the  kitchen  in  the  upward  flow  of  the  yellow,  liquid- 
like  flames. 

I  sped  to  the  barn,  where  I  found  the  hose  had  beer» 


38  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

screwed  so  long  to  the  faucet  that  six  mighty  and 
superhuman  efforts  were  required  to  release  it.  Hur- 
rying back  with  the  coil,  I  was  confronted  with  a  sort 
of  darkness  in  the  kitchen. 

"What  happened  to  the  fire?"  I  cried. 

They  all  pointed  to  McCracken.  He  held  a  long  red 
tin  tube,  whose  contents  he  had  cast  at  the  incipient 
calamity.  It  was  a  patent  fire  extinguisher. 

Good  old  McCracken!  Knew  everything.  Did 
everything.  I  could  see  at  once  that  he  was  the  kind 
of  a  man  always  at  hand  in  an  emergency.  A  frowsy, 
ugly,  old  bearded  Alexander  that  went  through  life 
cutting  the  Gordian  knots  of  his  friends. 

"It  came  near  being  another  and  unexpected  sort 
of  house-warming,"  said  Clara.  "I  didn't  know 
those  matches  jump  so  when  you  light  them.  Ill 
never  light  one  of  that  brand  again." 

"It  looked  like  curtains  for  the  bungalow,"  was  the 
remark  of  a  poet  standing  near  me. 

"If  the  bungalow  had  been  burned  to  the  ground, 
it  would  not  have  needed  curtains,"  said  I. 

But  we  house-warmed  during  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon, with  the  assistance  of  McCracken,  who  knew  as 
much  about  the  subject  as  any  of  us.  At  night  we 
marched  over  with  lanterns  and  warmed  his  house. 
Three  times  we  made  him  stand  on  a  chair  and  re- 
late how  he  had  put  out  the  fire.  He  had  started  to 
tell  it  for  the  fourth  time  when  we  coursed  back  to 
the  cow-yard  and  held  a  war-dance  with  Japanese 
lanterns  around  the  body  of  Minotaur  I,  with  elabor- 
ate Ceremonies  consigning  his  corporal  remains  to 
McCracken  and  his  soul  to  the  Elysian  Fields. 

In  resumption,  I  may  state  that  house-warming  is 
an  excellent  mental  stimulus  and  leaves  many  tender 
memories.  But  for  the  first  day  or  two  afterwards, 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  39 

such  aspects  are  not  noticeable;  they  do  not  at  once 
take  definite  form.  This  interval  is  overcast  with 
mysterious  lassitude.  There  is  also  a  dull,  unaccount- 
able repentance,  as  if  for  deeds  committed  in  a  former 
existence.  We  go  through  the  house,  gazing  out  the 
windows,  taking  to  couches,  sprawling  on  chairs,  and 
ever  and  anon  engulfing  glassfuls  of  water  with  such 
greed  that  considerable  of  the  liquid  trickles  down  the 
neck  and  makes  life  appear  in  a  bad  light.  We  rest 
our  head  on  our  cool  hand  until  the  hand  becomes  hot 
too,  and  then  we  try  another  position.  There  seems 
to  be  no  place  in  the  world  adequate  for  the  accom- 
modation of  this  very  same  head.  We  eat  because  we 
think  the  world  needs  us  yet  and  it  would  only  be 
selfishness  on  our  part  not  to  take  sustenance,  and  use 
all  possible  means  to  retain  it.  The  faces  of  friends, 
in  the  distorted  imagination,  are  ugly,  as  we  wonder 
what  they  will  say  when  they  see  us  again. 

House-warming  is  not  a  necessary  adjunct  to  the 
breeding  of  cows  and  the  raising  of  vegetables.  Yet, 
on  the  whole,  it  improves  the  mind  and  gives  a  liter- 
ary touch  to  the  commonplace  habit  of  passing  the 
bread. 


AN  INTERRUPTED  STORY 

Gilsey  was  a  reporter.  He  and  I  had  once  worked, 
smoked  and  cursed  our  Stygian  luck  on  the  same 
newspaper. 

Having  lost  his  job,  through  a  misunderstanding 
(the  misunderstanding  was  this:  Gilsey 's  City  Editor 
had  detailed  him  on  a  political  story;  the  City  Edit- 
or's idea  was  that  Gilsey  should  cover  the  story  with 
all  decent  expedition;  but  Gilsey,  under  a  misappre- 
hension and  feeling  that  all  political  matters  drag 
horribly,  proceeded  to  while  away  what  he  considered 
surplus  time  at  a  nearby  whiskey  counter,  where,  in  the 
course  of  a  few  hours,  he  forgot  whither  he  had  been 
sent) — anyway,  having  lost  his  job,  Gilsey  wrote  me, 
begging  all  possible  pardons,  but  pointing  out  what  a 
felicitous  deed  I  would  perform  by  returning  him  the 
fifty  cents  I  had  borrowed  a  year  before,  and,  should 
I  feel  so  hilarious  as  to  top  the  repayment  with  an 
extra  half  dollar,  he  thought  he  would  be  able  to  play 
twiddle  twaddle  with  starvation  for  a  few  days.  As 
with  most  reporters,  emergencies  usually  trapped  him 
without  enough  money  to  pay  the  funeral  expenses 
of  a  dead  certainty;  understand?  At  such  times,  he 
would  have  about  thirty-five  cents. 

So  I  invited  Gilsey  to  be  fresh-aired  and  country- 
fed  for  a  week  or  two  at  Procrastination  Farm,  but 
suggested  to  him,  on  arrival,  that  he  play  not  too 
strongly  on  the  motto  as  it  hung  in  my  studio.  As  for 
the  word,  "Procrastination,"  planted  in  sweet  peas, 
the  seeds,  presumably  having  taken  the  motto  to 
themselves,  had  not  yet  appeared. 

He  came  on  a  Wednesday  afternoon.  I  remember 
it  was  Wednesday  because  Gilsey  burlesqued  the  man- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  41 

ners  of  his  former  co-scribes  perhaps  at  that  very 
moment  of  payday  entering  the  local  room  with  their 
weekly  envelopes. 

We  were  filling  the  room  full  of  tobacco  smoke  and 
dreams.  I  had  a  pipe  and  gave  Gilsey  a  cigar  whose 
band  was  as  glorious  as  a  chmpionship  belt.  At  ef- 
fulgent ease,  I  sat  and  smiled  over  the  twelve-hued 
Smyrna  carpet,  the  dark  ponderous  furniture,  the 
glimmering  portiers,  statues  white  and  bronze,  and 
many  other  objects  common  in  uncommon  places,  and 
which  Fancy  said  would  be  in  my  rooms  as  soon  as  I 
should  realize  on  the  tragedy  in  blank  verse  which  I 
had  been  writing  an  hour  a  day.  I  would  have  liked 
to  devote  more  time  to  it,  but  could  not  afford  to  do 
so.  Art  pleaded,  but  Necessity  would  not  allow  more. 
Necessity  is  the  stepmother  of  literary  invention. 

Gilsey  worked  the  cigar  muscles  of  his  face  and 
poured  out  another  glassful.  I  soon  saw  that  Gil- 
sey 's  chief  claim  to  my  friendship,  as  on  previous  oc- 
casions in  the  City,  would  consist  of  drinking  my  wine 
and  calling  me  a  fool.  Sometimes  I  had  no  wine,  and 
sometimes  I  acted  quite  sensibly ;  he  stuck  to  me  in 
either  case,  though  the  shock  (especially  in  the 
former)  was  severe.  But  now  and  then  I  wondered, 
should  I  give  up  wine  and  folly  at  the  same  time,  what 
would  become  of  Gilsey.  In  defense  of  myself,  I  must 
say  that  every  man  who  had  an  established  home  and 
income,  and  who  notwithstanding  entertained  one 
particle  of  discontent  or  found  a  word  of  fault  against 
the  universe,  Gilsey  despised  as  a  fool  of  the  lowest 
type. 

Setting  down  his  glass,  the  ex-reporter  drawled : 
"Put  that  tragedy  at  the  bottom  of  an  old  trunk  and 
go  to  work  on  a  hot  melodrama,  with  fire-engines  and 


42  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

explosions  and  bridges  and  horse  races  and  prison 
cells.7' 

"It  would  be  playing  thunder  and  buttermilk  with 
my  reputation/'  I  replied. 

"My  dear  friend,"  he  rejoined,  "the  larger  part  of 
your  fame,  especially  as  to  poetry,  rests  with  me ;  and, 
as  I  promise  you  not  to  be  a  fickle  public,  you  may 
confidently  go  ahead  on  something  profitable.  In  the 
meanwhile  I  shall  not  forget  your  genius." 

The  word  "profitable"  is  alluring  even  when  com- 
ing from  the  lips  of  a  hartless  critic. 

"Gilsey,  your  influence  comes  like  a  green  cater- 
pillar on  a  pink  rose.  Yet  I  may  write  one  melo- 
drama. ' ' 

He  said:  "Blank  verse  is  well  and  good  for  college 
graduations,  when  everybody  is  feeling  sad  and  dig- 
nified ;  but  it  is  not  an  institution  where  a  man  takes 
his  lady  until  it  is  time  for  a  11  o  'clock  supper. ' ' 

"I  did  not  know  that  boon  to  be  the  big  squash  in 
drama,"  said  I,  extra  dryly. 

"Then  melodrama  is  real  life,"  he  pursued. 

"All  except  the  happy  ending,"  mused  I. 

"Happy  endings  are  the  life  of  the  soul,"  was  his 
view  of  it. 

In  a  little  while  I  lit  another  pipeful  and  queried, 
"What  do  you  think  of  this  for  a  plot?" 

"Let's  hear  it;  but  don't  make  it  too  fancy." 

Heedless  of  this  traverse,  I  began: 

"It  happened  in  California — in  a  one-story,  gable- 
roofed  village  between  a  railroad  track  and  a  hay- 
press." 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Gilsey,  with  more  enthusiasm 
than  I  had  assessed  him  for. 

"The  first  scene  opens  in  a  wheat  field.  The  hero- 
ine enters  with  two  friends.  One  of  them  is  Spanish 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  43 

at  a  glance;  the  other,  French  at  a  wink;  while  the 
heroine  is,  of  course,  everything  that  is  desirable,  as 
both  the  hero  and  the  villiam  well  know.  She  is  a 
clever  girl,  a  graduate  of  the  Stanford  University, 
and  sings  in  a  sweet  Palo  alto." 

"Here,  now,"  muttered  Gilsey.  "I  came  from 
there." 

"The  hero  enters,  winks  at  Babette,  takes  in  Car- 
mencita  at  a  glance  and,  observing  Louise — well,  no 
one  could  look  at  Louise  without  feeling  he  had  never 
loved  before." 

"Great!"  moaned  Gilsey. 

"You  see,  she  is  so  beautiful  that  they  have  called 
her  the  'Lady  of  the  West/  and  such  is  the  name  of 
the  melodrama.  Her  hair  is  gold-hued  as  the  nuggets 
that  come  from  the  mines.  She  is  essentially  a  West- 
ern Girl.  In  the  light  of  midday,  miles  of  yellow 
wheat  reflect  the  light  of  the  sun  upon  her  widely- 
admired  cheek.  The  red-yellow  poppies  throw  their 
humbler  glow  upon  her  feet.  From  top  to  bottom  the 
girl  stands  in  the  manifold  gleams  of  the  Golden 
State.  The  wheat,  the  poppies,  the  gold  and  the  sun 
not  only  bend  their  yellow  illumination  against  her, 
but  even  penetrate  her  soul  and  make  her  inwardly 
a  child  of  the  West.  Her  eyes  and  her  skies  are  blue. ' ' 

"Fine!"  roared  Gilsey,  sinking  lower  in  his  chair 
and  spilling  cigar  ashes  in  his  wine.  That's  worth 
$10,000  in  four  acts." 

His  words  made  me  jubilate.  Fancy  put  up  its 
radiant  umbrella  to  ward  off  the  shower  of  gold.  A 
clairvoyant  thrill  from  heart  or  solar  plexus  played 
in  premonition  of  profits.  It  was  as  if  the  Tenth 
Muse  (the  tutelary  goddess  of  Western  Literature) 
was  about  to  do  a  buck-and-wing  incantation  for  my 
prosperity. 


44  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

What  is  so  cheering  as  the  praise  of  a  pessimist, 
even  though  he  be  intoxicated.  Here  was  Gilsey, 
whom  I  was  beginning  to  nickname  mentally  as  the 
Plum-gouger  of  Melrose,  thumping  me  on  to  success. 
The  wreath  of  drama  was  just  being  felt  comfortably 
set  on  my  brow,  when,  a  moment  later,  its  green 
laurel  curled  and  rotted  and  fell. 

McCracken  entered  suddenly. 

"Is  this  the  editor  of  the  Melrose  Weekly  Pumpkin 
News?"  asked  Gilsey,  in  a  discontented  rumble. 

"Say,  neighbor,"  began  McCracken,  "I  think 
there's  hog  cholera  in  your  sty." 

"Hog  cholera!"  I  exclaimed  as  the  panorama  of 
wealth  collapsed  temporarily. 

"What  makes  you  think  it  is  hog  cholera?"  asked 
Gilsey,  with  the  charming  intimacy  and  inquiring 
mind  of  a  reporter. 

"Well,  it  might  be  swine  plague,  but  I  think  it  is 
hog  cholera,"  answered  McCracken. 

Gilsey  turned  to  me,  grumbling:  "I  don't  see  what 
difference  that  should  make  to  you.  Plague  on  the 
pigs  and  their  hog  cholera.  Go  on  with  the  story.  As 
for  me,  whether  it  is  hog  cholera  or  swine  plague 
doesn't  matter  a  flip — I'm  proud  to  say. 

I  questioned  the  harbinger  of  evil:  "How  do  you 
distinguish  between  the  hog  cholera  and  the  swine 
plague?" 

"It's  this  way:  In  some  circumstances  they're  about 
as  much  alike  as  hogs  and  swine.  It's  hard  to, tell  un- 
til after  they're  dead." 

"Good!"  chuckled  Gilsey.  "Wait  until  they  are 
dead  and  then  hold  a  post  mortem  examination.  Be 
scientific. ' ' 

"What  are  the  symptoms?"  I  asked  McCracken. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  45 

"Yesterday  afternoon,  I  noticed  that  the  hogs  had 
lost  their  appetite." 

Gilsey  sat  up  in  his  chair.  After  staring  at  me  in 
wild  wonder,  he  delivered  himself  of  the  following: 

i '  Great  peppermints !  What  sensible  man,  what 
gentleman  of  culture  and  refinement  would  be  men- 
tally disturbed  by  the  fact  that  a  pig  had  lost  its  ap- 
petite? Perhaps  it's  the  dawn  of  their  better  natures; 
perhaps  they  have  overloaded  their  seventh  stomachs. 
For  my  part  I  should  consider  it  a  cause  of  rejoic- 
ing." 

"Their  breathing  is  out  of  order;  all  your  hogs  are 
coughing,"  added  the  farmer. 

"Maybe  it  is  the  croup,"  Gilsey  suggested.  "Or 
the  whooping  cough.  If  it's  the  whooping  cough — 
by  heck!  There's  a  rush  of  luck  to  my  bazoo,  and  111 
be  lassooed  for  a  lallapaloosa  if  I  don't  photograph 
them  and  get  up  a  Sunday  story.  A  pig  with  the 
whooping  cough !  Great  scoops !  Funniest  thing  ever, 
or  I'm  dreaming.  I'll  make  $25  out  of  this.  A  whoop- 
ing-cough scoop!  A  whooping  hog!  Say,  I'm  glad 
you  got  this  farm;  I'll  get  many  a  story  out  of  it." 

"Pigs  don't  have  whooping  cough,"  McCracken 
advised.  Vivid  with  love  of  the  soil,  he  faced  the  re- 
porter like  an  earth  god  blasting  a  mortal. 

The  reporter  refused  to  feel  blasted.  He  addressed 
the  other 

"Friend,  you  are  not  in  sympathy  with  journalism. 
I  saw  at  once  that  you  are  not  a  newspaperman, 
though  I  at  first  suspected  you  of  being  a  rural  editor, 
merely  on  account  of  your  presence  here.  It  is  not 
necessary  for  these  interesting  creatures  to  have  the 
whooping  cough  from  a  medical,  but  from  a  Sunday 
Supplement  standpoint.  All  that  they  must  do  is  to 
assume  the  positions  and  perform  the  duties  and  an- 


46  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

tics  of  whooping.  Think  of  it!" — turning  to  me — 
"How  many  are  there?  Five?  Fiv6  pigs  stretching 
their  damned  throats  to  heaven,  opening  their  Bac- 
chanalian snouts  and  whooping  it  up  in  innocent  and 
diabolical  consternation!  Suffering  porkchops!  Im- 
agine their  clumsy  efforts  interpreting  the  internal 
confusion  as  exemplified  in  the  novel  basso  profundo 
effects  of  their  voices.  Snuffle,  snuffle,  grunt,  grovel- 
whoop  !  What  a  picture !  Is  there  anything  else 
worthy  of  note?"  he  again  questioned  McCracken. 

That  disgusted  person  gave  his  reply  to  me: 
"They're  acting  dull  and  stupid." 

Gilsey  bounded  from  his  chair.  "Ha!  This  is  too 
devilish  good!  Beautiful,  beautiful!  The  pigs  are 
dull  and  stupid.  Say,  what  kind  of  hogs  are  they, 
anyway,  in  their  normal  condition?  With  what  intel- 
lectual diversions  do  they  usually  pass  their  time? 
Oh!  I  had  forgot.  They  are  a  literary  man's  pigs.  I 
suppose  you  read  poems  to  them  every  morning,  treat 
them  to  Greek  orations  in  the  afternoon  and  play 
moonlight  sonatas  near  the  sty  at  night.  But  now 
their  hamfat  spirits  are  back-sliding.  Now,  alas,  they 
are  dull  and  stupid."  And  Gilsey  put  his  elbow  on 
the  mantel,  to  laugh  it  out  with  himself. 

However,  I  had  to  forget  "The  Lady  of  the  West," 
and  we  set  out  for  the  sty.  Our  feet,  eloquent  with 
apprehension,  spoke  their  sorrowful  way  on  the 
ground,  as  our  tongues  trod  the  airs  of  discussion,  with 
a  cure  for  hog  cholera  the  destination  of  our  hopes. 
My  neighbor  and  I  were,  of  course,  grave  as  all  scien- 
tists are,  while  Gilsey,  my  wine-fellow  of  a  few  min- 
utes ago,  trailed  along  in  lugubrious  jollification,  ad- 
vising spirits  of  ammonia  and  soothing  syrup  for  the 
victims'  physical  palliation,  and  sachet  powders  for 
their  subtler  senses. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  47 

After  inspecting  the  patients,  we  went  to  town  and 
bought  a  mixture.  It  was  ineffective. 

Within  a  few  days,  in  spite  of  the  sulphur,  sodiums 
and  charcoal  fed  to  the  sufferers  on  McCracken's  pre- 
scribing, four  of  the  five  went  to  the  Valley  of  Shad- 
ows. One  shoat  survived  the  Pandemonium.  The 
corpses  were  cremated  in  their  sty.  We  piled  logs 
over  them  and  set  fire  to  the  whole  structure. 

Pig-raising  as  an  industry  was  thus  eliminated  from 
my  day's  routine.  It  was  probably  for  the  best,  as 
they  were  not  inspiring. 

The  convalescent  shoat  we  gave  a  carbolic  acid  bath 
and  every  comfort.  He  never  became  fatty  and  pig- 
like  ;  his  form  was  stunted ;  his  mind  apparently  re- 
miniscent. I  built  a  kennel  for  his  lodging,  and  he 
boarded  on  the  European  plan  where  he  happened  to 
be,  in  and  about  the  farm.  He  liked  wheat  and  corn 
mainly.  On  occasions  I  nourished  him  with  patent 
breakfast  foods,  daintied  him  with  fancy  crackers  and 
predigested  foods.  He  became  quite  a  pet.  Some- 
times, to  sustain  his  interest  in  life,  I  gave  him  por- 
tions from  the  table,  which  he  accepted  if  not  with 
good  manners  at  least  with  good  will.  Sometimes  a 
bowl  of  wine  or  beer  or  whiskey  mash  went  his  way; 
all  in  all  he  was  the  most  stylishly  kept  pig  I  knew  of. 
Rambling  about  the  grounds  at  will,  subject  only  to 
Rowdy's  admonishing  bark,  Pig  soon  learned  that  the 
right  to  muzzle  over  foliage  and  prospect  for  juicy 
roots  was  not  his.  He  was  a  favorite  with  visitors, 
especially  those  who  were  the  least  hoglike — I  mean 
the  ladies,  who  took  his  grunt  as  a  sign  of  the  most 
delicious  intelligence. 

Ungainly  quadruped,  survivor-  of  a  fivefold  belly- 
ache that  exploded  the  ideals  and  reals  of  thy  noble 
kinspigs,  the  world  offers  its  temporary  standpoint  to 


48  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

thy  lonely  feet.  0  leaflard  pig!  0  like  us  all  in  the 
winds  of  eternity,  more  light  as  a  leaf  than  important 
as  lard.  Tread  softly  the  dangerous  earth.  For  thy 
life  is  the  heirloom  of  all  the  swine  that  wallowed  in 
these  muse-haunted  environs.  Long  life  and  joyful 
grunts  to  thee!  And  when  the  time  comes  that  thou 
must  wobble  into  oblivion,  and  shouldst  thou  come  to 
be  a  pig  in  another  world,  tell  thy  comrades  that  anti- 
mony sulphide  is  not  an  infallible  remedy  for  hog 
cholera,  or  swine  plague,  and  to  put  all-  their  hopes  in 
^metempsychosis,  eternal  change  and  the  great  mystery. 


THE  EFFECT  OF  A  MOSQUITO  ON  SOCIALISM. 

I  once  thought  that  farming  consisted  mostly  of  be- 
ing sturdy,  honest  and  gathering  in  the  crops  while 
travelers  in  the  overland  trains  waved  their  handker- 
chiefs from  the  car  windows.  Waiting  for  rain  also 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  Later,  I  found  that  a 
successful  crop-gatherer  must  be  a  microbe-hunter,  a 
bug-student,  an  architect,  a  chemist,  a  veterinary  sur- 
geon, a  geologist  and  what  is  called  a  good  loser. 
After  some  trials,  I  was  able  to  fulfill  the  latter  re- 
quirement superbly. 

Still,  the  way  I  destroyed  precendents  and  results 
at  the  same  time  was  not  all  my  own  fault.  In  the 
first  place  I  wish  to  say  that  there  is  something  wrong 
with  the  earth  on  which  we  live ;  not  as  a  world,  but  as 
mere  earth,  sod,  soil.  For  instance,  certain  edible  roots 
having  been  planted  in  the  form  of  the  word,  CAR- 
HOTS,  why  should  only  CAR  have  emerged  from  the 
ground?  And  what  had  become  of  ROTS?  Had  the 
mischief  been  entirely  mine,  nothing  at  all  should  have 
grown  from  the  seeds,  as  all  had  the  same  benefits  at 
the  start.  But  there  was  CAR,  and  ROTS  unevidenced 
save  by  insinuation.  Of  CABBAGES,  only  part  of  a 
syllable,  BA  arose  to  view.  And  of  SUNFLOWERS, 
only  OW.  It  was  the  science  of  McCracken,  who 
knew  them  at  sight,  that  enabled  me  to  decipher  the 
bewitched  words.  And  right  here  I'll  say  a  good 
word  for  potatoes.  I  had  at  Procrastination  Farm  the 
finest  potatoes  in  the  world.  That  was  one  consola- 
tion. McCracken  planted  them,  accidently  in  the 
right  place,  and  nothing  ever  harmed  them. 

My  chickens  were  a  dare-devil  herd,  forever  squab- 
bling among  themselves.  Did  one  of  them  find  a  worm*, 


50  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

a  riot  immediately  ensued,  and  for  a  while  it  was  like 
flying  hatpins,  although  I  ^ave  them  all  they  could 
gorge  of  wheat,  corn,  table  scraps,  crushed  oyster 
shells  AND  mangel-wurzels.  Besides,  they  had  an 
alfalfa  playground  to  themselves.  Nevertheless,  one 
little  worm  of  discord,  and  I  could  hear  the  clatter  of 
conflict  from  my  writing  table ;  then  would  have  to 
lay  off  work  and  separate  the  combatants.  No  won- 
der the  rooster  had  whipped  a  bull;  he  was  head  of  a 
fighting  tribe. 

There  was  another  food  to  which  these  hens  were 
very  much  attached,  and  that  was  newly-laid  eggs.  I 
had  never  heard  of  chickens  eating  raw  eggs.  I  fancied 
they  produced  these  nutritious  objects  for  man's  use 
and  the  propagation  of  their  own  species.  But  oft  at 
dewy  eve,  going  out  to  collect  the  oviform  deposit  of 
this  well-fed  pampered  poultry,  I  would  find  one- 
twelfth  of  a  dozen  intact  and  a  mess  of  empty  shells. 
At  first  I  did  not  suspect  the  blackguards.  I  inferred 
that  a  gopher  or  other  foul  varmint  had  sneaked  into 
the  nests.  And  I  resolved,  should  he  be  arrested  and 
convicted,  there  would  be  a  public  execution  in  pres- 
ence of  all  the  live  stock.  But  once  upon  a  time  I  lay 
for  the  intruder  and  beheld  my  own  hens  guzzling,  the 
yolks  and  eating  part  of  the  shells  in  an  attempt  to 
destroy  the  evidence  of  crime. 

"McCracken,"  said  I  one  day,  "I  hate  to  be  tapping 
the  fountain-head  of  your  wisdom  so  often;  but  tell 
me,  is  it  the  duty  of  a  farmer  to  watch  his  hens  all 
day  and  at  the  dramatic  moment  snatch  the  egg  from 
their  greedy  mawsf  Must  I  bring  my  work  into  the 
chicken  palace  and  wait  for  the  triumphant  cluck  that 
heralds  another  egg  has  seen  the  light  of  day?" 

"The  egg-eating  habit  in  chickens,"  said  he,  "is  a 
pernicious  one  and  hard  to  break." 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  51 

"All  pernicious  habits  are/' 

"The  whole  trouble  lies  in  the  fact  that  your  nests 
were  built  wrong  in  the  first  place.  You  see,  some  hens 
fight  for  the  possession  of  a  nest,  an  egg  is  broken  in 
the  skirmish ;  then  they  experiment  with  the  inside  and 
find  it  good  to  eat." 

"Ah,  I  see!  There  has  always  been  considerable  ill 
feeling  in  that  flock. " 

We  went  to  the  scene  of  infamy.  Two  fowls  were  in 
the  nests.  Along  came  a  Mother  Grundy  sort  of  a  leg- 
horn and,  instead  of  entering  one  of  the  unoccupied 
boxes,  went  right  for  the  one  in  which  a  black  hen  was 
squatting  in  egg-laying  bliss.  There  was  a  scuffle,  and 
shortly  afterwards,  the  leghorn  was  mistress  of  the 
straw.  The  black  one,  trembling  and  clucking  with 
rage,  flew  into  a  box  where  sat  another  layer.  A 
short,  snappy  discussion  followed;  then  a  fracas,  and 
the  intruder  was  cast  out. 

"An  egg  there,  and  you'd  a'  lost  it,"  muttered  Mc- 
Cracken. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  I  hoped  he  would  tell  me  to  do 
havoc  and  carnage,  or  something  that  could  be  done 
with  a  hatchet. 

"Open  up  the  boxes,  put  them  further  apart,  and  if 
there  must  be  fighting,  give  them  plenty  of  room. 
Also  give  them  eggshells  to  eat,  and  maybe  in  time 
they'll  break  off  their  habit." 

"Oh,  I'll  give  them  all  the  eggshells  they  can  use." 

In  a  short  time,  after  nabbing  the  chief  offender,  and 
serving  her  up  in  the  form  of  a  stew,  some  of  which  I 
gave  to  Rowdy  and  Pig,  matters  became  so  prosperous 
in  the  hennery  that  I  was  able  to  trade  eggs  for  coffee 
at  the  Melrose  grocery  store.  This  was  my  first  re- 
splendent success  as  a  producer. 

I  may  now  record  what  amounted  almost  to  a  night- 


52  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

mare  at  Procrastination  Farm.  It  was  the  very  deli- 
rium tremens  of  agriculture  ;  to  wit :  bugs.  In  wander- 
ing about  the  grounds  one  day,  I  found  a  black  beetle 
and  gave  it  to  the  rooster  as  a  peace  offering.  Not 
long  after  that,  beetles  were  found  ambushed  under 
every  stone  and  clump  of  earth.  Other  insects  appeared 
in  large  forces.  I  think  that  my  acre  in  Melrose  was 
the  most  insecty  place  on  the  face  of  the  globe.  Often 
it  was  gorgeous  with  the  hues  of  their  wings.  There 
were  ants  that  marched  in  caravan.  Now  and  then  the 
air  was  filled  with  the  gentle  thunder  of  bees.  Butter- 
flies, grasshoppers,  ladybugs — my  plants  were  jeweled 
with  them.  Horseflies  were  numerous,  though  I  kept 
no  horse. 

The  cucumber  and  melon  vines  became  afflicted  with 
yellow  spots  and  curlycues,  thus  teaching  me  the  game 
of  downy  mildew  and  leafblight.  Dodder  curled  all 
over  the  alfalfa. 

The  only,  pure,  unsullied  part  of  my  farm,  outside 
of  McCracken's  potatoes,  was  the  sky.  And  this,  too, 
taking  into  consideration  that  I  never  took  the  slight- 
est care  of  it.  I  never  had  to  hoe  or  rake  the  sky; 
never  fertilized,  never  irigated  it.  And  yet  the  sky 
over  my  farm  was  as  beautiful  an  azure  as  over  any 
spot  in  Melrose.  Of  course,  whenever  I  found  any 
chicken-hawk  or  wild  ducks  flying  across  my  empy- 
rean, I  shot  them  at  once.  But  this  was  sport  and 
much  more  edifying  than  squirting  kerosene  into  the 
two  peach  trees  for  the  caterpillars  hibernating  or  the 
moths  picnicking  in  every  nook. 

No  foreboding  of  such  pests  had  come  to  my  dreams 
of  a  country  bungalow.  They  were  not  the  necessary 
game  of  a  story  writer.  I  hated  to  rush  out  in  the 
denouement  of  a  plot  to  spend  three  days  saving  the 
life  of  a  gourd  or  a  watermelon.  It  was  irksome,  when 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  .A  BUNGALOW  53 

guiding  my  heroine  through  a  beautiful  scene,  to  have 
her  turn  in  the  powerful  description  and  remind  me 
that  the  grasshoppers  might  at  that  moment  be  ab- 
ducting my  last  cabbage.  As  my  hero  sat  in  a  gilded 
drawing-room  telling  witty  stories  to  the  ladies,  he 
would  give  me  a  glance  over  his  shoulder  and  say, 
"Kemember  the  tomatoes,  old  boy;  I'll  wait  here  for 
you. ' ' 

I  wished  that  some  Entomological  Society  or  Profes- 
sor of  Bugs  would  visit  my  realm,  as  more  data  could 
be  obtained  in  my  back  yard  than  in  traveling  over  all 
the  rest  of  the  country.  I  myself  knew  more  about 
gnats  than  any  one  outside  of  the  gnats  themselves. 
It  took  me  but  a  few  days  to  become  the  greatest 
gnaturalist  in  the  world.  And  the  most  comical- 
phizzed  grasshoppers  that  ever  stood  in  solemn  thought 
did  so  on  my  grounds  and  on  my  desk. 

For  instance,  now,  what  student  of  natural  history 
knows  that  when  ladybugs  commit  suicide,  they  jump 
sideways  into  an  inkwell?  Or  that  when  rescued  they 
crawl  up  your  sleeves  and  have  an  epileptic  fit  in  the 
soft  part  of  your  forearm?  What  other  insect  ob- 
server would  dream  a  spider  is  so  stupid  as  to  spin  his 
web  in  an  egg-beater,  and  that  when  you  purpose  to 
teach  him  a  lesson  by  making  that  contrivance  revolve 
with  rapidity,  he  will  be  hurled  into  a  pan  of  milk? 
Who  ever  heard  that  a  beetle  has  such  inquisitive  in- 
stincts it  will  crawl  to  a  point  on  the  ceiling  directly 
overhead  and  drop  onto  your  book  to  see  what  you  are 
reading.  We  know  the  passion  of  the  moth  for  the 
flame.  But  who  else  has  known  a  hundred  moths  to, 
hide  in  a  Japanese  lantern  all  day  waiting  for  the 
candle  to  be  lit  at  night?  Think  of  the  hostility  of 
bees  that  failing  to  sting  to  death  the  cuckoo  of  a  clock. 


54  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

made  honey  inside  the  case  and  stopped  up  the  cuckoo 
with  wax. 

These  things  I  have  known  and  are  common  in  the 
husbandry  at  Procrastination  Farm. 

They  remind  me  of  the  time  that  Ernest  Woods 
paid  me  a  visit.  -Woods  was  a  Socialist  and  had  just 
been  running  a  Socialist  Weekly.  After  running  it  to 
the  ground,  his  theories  soared  to  less  worldy  ethers 
than  ever. 

Woods  was  tall  and  lank,  wore  a  black  suit,  black 
slouch  hat,  flowing  black  necktie  and  a  black  frown. 
His  mouth  was  wide  as  a  propoganda,  his  nose  a  dia- 
tribe on  the  evils  of  wealth. 

I  entertained  him  on  the  veranda,  for  he  wished  to 
be  near  to  Nature,  having  become  disgusted  with  man- 
kind. During  his  career  as  a  journalist,  more  thrifty 
than  most  of  his  kind,  he  had  saved  up  $4,  he  said, 
and  being  simple  in  his  habits  was  in  no  danger  of 
Actual  Want.  Actual  Want  was  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  admitted  by  him  to  be  an  excuse  for  unhappi- 
ness.  He  always  calculated  the  ills  of  mankind  from 
that  basis.  Just  as  every  science  and  creed  must  be- 
gin with  some  axiom,  faith  or  assumption,  so  Woods' 
philosophy  took  Actual  Want  for  its  foundation.  And 
it  was  a  first-rate  foundation  for  a  castle  in  the  air. 

Woods  was  willing  to  work  for  a  livelihood,  but  de- 
sired to  reform  the  world  before  laboring  in  it. 

"The  way  this  world  goes  on  now,"  he  averred,  "I 
would  not  give  one  beautiful  dewdrop  for  all  its  lux- 
uries. I  would  not  barter  one  drop  of  peaceful  man- 
hood to  take  part  in  its  most  prized  and  glittering 
infamies.  As  long  as  I  have  the  price  of  a  loaf  of 
bread,  I  shall  refrain  from  doing  a  stroke  of  work  in 
the  debauched  industries  of  our  present  social  system. 
Of  course,  when  a  man  comes  to  Actual  Want,  he  is  a 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  55 

prisoner  and  must  obey  the  law  or  die.  If  I  had  a 
hundred  dollars  I'd  put  the  'Socialist  News'  on  a  solid 
footing  again.  But  I  have  not,  and  I'll  have  to  make  a 
solid  footing  for  my  contentment  instead. 

"I'll  tell  what's  the  matter  with  this  world.  It  is, 
believe  me,  lost  in  a  rank  labyrinth  of  gaudy,  stinking, 
smug  hypocricy,  that  fills  its  places  like  an  over- 
growth of  poisonous  tropical  plants.  And,  until  that 
is  removed,  I  shall  refuse  to  enter  into  the  scheme.  I 
refuse  to  join  the  illusion  of  riches.  We  are  not  rich 
except  with  a  plenitude  of  sins.  And  I'll  tell  you  the 
truth,  I'm  not  indolent;  I'd  like  to  work  if  conditions 
were  fit  to  work  in." 

He  sat  as  defiant  as  if  sitting  were  the  most  char- 
acteristic position  a  wise  man  could  assume.  With 
knees  far  forth  and  feet  folded  under  his  chair,  he 
enjoyed  his  pipe,  his  opinions  and  the  horizon.  I  had  a 
very  fine  horizon  from  my  veranda. 

" Woods,"  I  vouchsafed,  "what  you  need  is  physical 
exercise.  You  have  allowed  yourself  to  grow  grisly 
with  a  too  profound  look  at  the  truth.  A  little  honest 
or  even  dishonest  excitement  would  be  good  for  you; 
it  might  change  your  whole  view  of  life." 

"I  don't  want  to  change  it,"  he  retorted  very 
quickly.  "I  wouldn't  risk  anything  that  might  bring 
about  a  change." 

"You  might  be  inspired  to  greater  logic." 

"No,"  he  replied  sadly;  "don't  say  that.  I  can't 
alter  the  truth;  and  no  one,  I  venture  to  say,  can  alter 
it  for  me." 

Just  then  Woods  struck  himself  a  solid  slap  on  the 
back  of  the  neck,  for  the  mere  purpose,  I  fancied,  of 
giving  grotesque  emphasis  to  his  statement,  until  I 
saw  a  magnificent  specimen  of  thoroughbred  mos- 
quito wing  itself  away. 


56  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

4 'Say,  that's  a  horrible  feeling/ '  he  cried,  jumping 
to  his  feet.  I  wouldn't  live  out  here,  rent  and  tobacco 
free.  How  do  you  stand  it?  I  wonder  if  your  mos- 
quitoes are  the  yellow-fever  kind.  The  one  that  stung 
me  must  have  risen  from  the  Swamps  of  Tartarus. 
Filthy,  blood-sucking  pest.  Symbol  of  the  Capitalist 
Class.  When  I  get  back  to  the  City  I'll  stay  there.  A 
man  knows  what  he's  getting  anyway.  He  can  select 
his  troubles  in  the  City  and  not  find  them  suddenly 
tapping  his  lifeblood.  Look  at  that  flock  of  mos- 
quitoes heading  this  way!  Let's  go  in." 

We  entered  the  bungalow,  where  Woods  applied 
whiskey  to  the  lump  on  his  neck. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  a  mind  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"What's  that?" 

"I've  been  offered  a  position  soliciting  advertise- 
ments for  a  society  paper  in  San  Francisco.  I  don't 
know  which  one  it  is ;  but  a  friend  of  mine,  running  an 
advertisement  bureau,  says  he  can  show  me  how  to 
make  $5  a  day,  if  I'm  willing.  Maybe  it  is  a  good 
thing,  just  to  show  the  world  what  I  can  do." 

"I  think  it  would  be,"  said  I. 

In  about  an  hour  he  repented  and  said  he  would  not 
fool  with  the  proposition  at  all.  He  was  a  pessimist 
again,  sitting  in  his  chair  as  doleful  as  the  Sands  of 
Time  run'  out. 

Still,  I  thought  that  two  or  three  more  slaps  on  the 
neck  would  have  established  the  circulation  of  his 
blood  and  made  him  an  active  citizen.  The  mosquito 
cure  for  discontent  has  never  been  given  a  fair  trial. 


DEBATE  BETWEEN  A  REPORTER  AND  A 
FARMER 

One  afternoon  I  was  feeling  under  the  weather  and 
was  vainly  trying  to  get  on  top,  when  Gilsey  arrived 
with  the  declaration  that  it  was  his  day  off. 
.    '"I  was  under  the  impression  that  all  your  days  are 
on2,"  said  I. 

"No.  Been  working  on  the  ' Chronicle.'  Here's  a 
canary  bird  I  brought  for  you.  Got  it  for  nothing 
from  a  guy  I  interviewed.  I  knew  you  ought  to  have 
some  sort  of  a  something  to  eat  up  all  the  chickweed 
that  grows  around  here.  Nothing  should  go  to  waste 
on  a  farm." 

"Now,  I  shall  have  to  get  a  cat,"  said  I.  "It  would 
be  upsetting  traditions  to  have  a  canary  without  a  cat 
to  gaze  up  at  it  wistfully." 

"Won't  the  pig  do?"  Gilsey  suggested.  He  smiled 
out  the  window,  where  the  highly  civilized  pig  was  act- 
ing with  unusual  animation. 

"Did  you  ever  find  out,"  Gilsey  continued,  "whether 
it  was  hog  cholera  or  swine  plague  that  carried  off 
your  swillivorous  quadrupeds?" 

"No;  I  lost  interest  after  their  demise." 

He  went  to  the  window.  "Say,"  he  ejaculated, 
"there's  something  wrong  with  the  survivor  of  all 
your  pigs.  Acts  drunk." 

I  looked. 

"How  is  it,"  queried  Gilsey,  "that  every  time  I 
come  here,  I  have  to  assist  at  the  medical  treatment  of 
part  of  your  menagerie?  First  your  hogs  got  the 
tomestone  stomachache.  Then  your  chickens  took  the 
gapes.  Your  mosquitoes,  led  by  one  of  them  demo- 
gogues,  tried  to  break  up  the  government.  Your  cu- 
cumbers got  the  mumps.  Now  the  Pig  of  Melrose 


58  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

apparently  has  the  willies,  though  I  suppose  that 
scientific  McCracken  friend  of  yours  wouldn't  call  it 
by  that  name.  Say,  how  do  you  write,  anyway?  Don't 
you  have  to  go  to  a  neighboring  ranch  to  get  up  a  fif- 
teen-minute inspiration?  I  believe  Nature  has  the  St. 
Vitus  Dance  around  here." 

We  went  out  to  see  the  pig;  which  perturbed  ani- 
mal, descrying  us,  immediately  scudded  towards  Gilsey, 
who  leapt  over  him. 

"Piggiwig's  nuzzle  is  all  red  and  inflamed,  and  his 
trotters  and  tail  have  a  crimson  tint.  And  he's  deliri- 
ous ;  no  doubt  about  that.  Looks  like  scarlet  fever. 
Call  McCracken,"  said  the  reporter,  with  a  show  of 
compassion. 

I  went  for  the  wisest  of  them  all,  who  came  and 
ambled  towards  the  frenzied  porker. 

"Poisoned!"  cried  McCracken. 

The  reporter  took  a  sheet  of  copy  paper  from  his 
pocket. 

"I  hate  to  work  on  my  day  off,  but  I  wouldn't  miss 
this,"  he  said.  "What  is  the  name  of  this  pig?  Ah! 
Just  Pig.  That's  interesting."  He  made  notes.  "How 
many  miles  from  Melrose  Station  is  this  ?  Uh  huh ! 
Educated  pig.  Runs  about  the  house  and  grounds  like 
a  dog,  or  as  near  like  a  dog  as  he  can.  Comes  from 
an  unfortunate  family.  All  his  known  relations  died 
from  the  effects  of  the  hog  cholera  or  swine  plague- 
experts  are  in  doubt  which.  Even  the  Nestor  of  Mel- 
rose  was  confounded,  or  was  it  dumbfounded — well,  no 
matter.  Could  grunt  'yes'  and  squeal  'no;'  smoked 
a  pipe  and  was  fond  of  tenderloin  of  sole  if  cooked  a 
la  Italienne.  Poisoned !  Pathetic.  Infamous  deed. 
Some  unfeeling  scoundrel — identity  unknown.  Crime 
unparalleled  for  peculiarity  in  the  annals  of  Melrose. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  59 

I  wonder  if  death  will  occur  in  time  for  me  to  catch 
the  last  train  for  the  City/' 

McCracken  noticed  some  dry  red  leaves  on  the 
ground. 

"Shoat's  eaten  poison  oak/'  he  asserted. 

"Poison  oak  nothing/'  exclaimed  Gilsey.  "Pigs  fat- 
ten on  poison  oak  where  I  come  from.  Nothing  but 
cyanide  of  potassium  will  make  a  pig  sick." 

' ' Well, ' '  half  admitted  the  granger ;  "but  there 's 
the  poison  oak  and  there's  the  pig.  He  found  it  some- 
where. Any  alcohol  in  your  BUNGALOW  ? "  he  asked 
me.  He  always  referred  to  my  estate  with  an  exasper- 
ating accent  on  the  word  bungalow. 

I  had  used  up  all  my  alcohol  the  day  before  by 
dropping  it  on  the  brick  fire-place. 

McCracken  went  his  bow-legged  way  home,  while  I 
ran  down  to  Melrose  for  sugar  of  lead,  McCracken 
cautioning  me  not  to  be  cajoled  into  buying  something 
else ;  he  was  almost  sure  I  would  be.  We  bade  Gilsey 
to  watch  the  symptoms. 

I  made  the  purchase  exactly  as  directed,  and  has- 
tened back,  not  wishing  Piggy  to  blame  me  for  his 
sufferings.  On  return,  I  inquired  how  the  patient  was 
doing. 

"Pig's  only  drunk,"  replied  Gilsey.  "I've  seen 
many  a  man  with  a  sosh,  and  I  ought  to  recognize  it 
in  a  pig." 

McCracken  mixed  the  sugar  of  lead  in  alcohol  and 
rubbed  it  on  the  affected  parts,  with  much  difficulty, 
as  the  porker  was  giving  a  fine  imitation  of  epilepsy, 
blind  staggers,  delirium  tremens  and  steeple-chasing. 
Then  he  seemed  to  imagine  himeslf  a  paper  hoop  and 
tried  to  jump  through  himself. 

Gilsey  laughed.  "He's  got  'em.  He  sees  snakes  and 
is  trying  to  catch  'em,  and  he's  puzzled.  Quit  with 


60  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

your  alcohol;  he's  got  enough  alcohol  inside  of  him 
already.  What  the  drunken  little  sausage  needs  is  a 
cup  of  black  coffee. " 

McCracken  was  never  wont  to  pay  attention  to  Gil- 
sey's  remarks,  as  he  considered  that  reporter,  for  all 
practical  and  agricultural  purposes,  a  laughing  mon- 
strosity. He  was  struggling  over  the  pig,  in  this  ex- 
citing clinic,  when  Gilsey  kneeled  beside  the  animal 
and  proceeded  to  address  the  farmer  as  follows: 

"Mr.  McCracken,  you  are  a  wise,  a  very  wise  man." 

"Humph!'7  said  McCracken. 

"However,  there  are  limits  to  all  earthly  wisdom, 
and  that  is  why,  and  perhaps  for  that  reason  alone,  I 
have  long  believed  you  do  not  know  everything.  You 
will  pardon  me  for  saying  so." 

"Humph!"  said  McCracken. 

"You  will  observe,  my  wise  friend,  that  the  snorter 
of  this  intelligent  quadruped  is  of  a  bright  scarlet  hue. 
He  has  what  we  would  call  in  metropolitan  parlance  a 
red  nose. 

"Uh!"  said  McCracken. 

"You  will  also  observe  that  some  of  the  bristles 
about  this  pig's  nose  are  red  at  the  base." 

"Damn!"  said  McCracken,  looking. 

"Again,  you  will  notice,  upon  closer  examination, 
that  this  poison  oak  is  not  poison  oak,  but  rose  leaves. 
Even  with  my  limited  experience,  I  know  this,  for  I 
obtained  them  from  a  rose  bush.  The  red  spots  on  this 
pig's  nose,  tail  and  feet  are  red  ink.  "With  very  little 
knowledge  of  live  stock,  I  know  this,  too,  for  I  found 
the  fluid  in  a  red  ink  bottle,  and  assumed  with  my 
reportorial  intuition  that  it  was  that  what  it  purported 
to  be.  Under  the  porch  is  a  tin  pail,  in  which  your 
sagacious  nose  will  detect  the  aroma  of  Fine  Old  Bour- 
bon, which  I  purchased  in  San  Francisco.  It  makes 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  61 

men  act  like  drunken  pigs,  and  I  had  no  doubt  that  it 
would  conversely,  cause  a  pig  to  act  like  a  drunken 
man.  The  whole  affair  proves  to  me  that  you  do  not 
know  the  difference  between  poison  oak  and  an  artis- 
tic combination  of  whiskey  and  crimson  writing  fluid, 
though  to  me  the  similarity  is  not  close  by  any  means. 
From  the  moment  of  first  meeting  you,  I  had  a  pale 
gray  inkling  that  you  were  not  omniscient  and  infalli- 
ble. Now  I  have  a  bright  red  inkling,  and  I'm  satis- 
fied. ' 

McCracken  arose  and  swore,  at  first  irrelevantly, 
then  upbraiding  himself  for  his  rash  judgment  of  the 
pig's  affliction.  Amid  his  wrath,  we  caught  such 
phrases  as  " low-down  blunder — don't  know  how  I 
could  a'  done  it — man  of  my  age  and  experience — 
guess  I  deserve  all  I  get." 

" Don't  get  mad,  old  man,"  remonstrated  Gilsey. 
"Everyone  is  liable  to  make  a  mistake." 

"Not  me!" 

"No.  But  don't  jump  around  like  a  fly  in  a  bottle 
just  because  you  made  one.  Everybody  does  occa- 
sionally. ' ' 

"I  never  do." 

"Don't  bother." 

"I  do  bother.  I  know  I  can't  make  a  mistake  with 
animals;  and  now  I've  made  one." 

"Well,  an  intoxicated  pig  was  not  within  your 
course  of  study." 

"Yes,  it  was.  That's  what  I  have  my  knowledge 
for — so  dandiprats  like  you  can't  buncombe  me.  And 
you  can't  either;  but  you  did,  I  admit.  You  can  take 
all  the  credit.  If  I  was  the  man  to  be  fooled  frequent, 
or  every  now  and  then,  I  wouldn't  care.  But  I'm  proof 
against  tricks,  and  that's  why  it  hurts  me  to  be 
tricked  once." 


62  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

We  went  into  the  bungalow  and  had  two  consoling 
drinks  over  the  question,  and  McCracken's  self -de- 
nunciation partially  eased  off. 

While  I  was  preparing  dinner,  Gilsey  informed  me 
that  my  bungalow  was  not  run  in  as  orderly  a  way  as 
it  should  be ;  so  he  formulated  a  set  of  rules,  which  he 
tacked  onto  the  door.  Perhaps  they  were  unnecessary. 
But  here  is  Gilsey 's  idea: 

RULES  AND  REGULATIONS  FOR  PROCRASTINA- 
TION FARM. 

One  Bell — McCracken. 

Two  Bells — Arnica. 

Three  Bells — General  alarm. 

Visitors  are  requested  not  to  mention  fresh  vege- 
tables and  dairy  products,  nor  ask  how  the  farm  is 
getting  along. 

Loud  talking  is  not  permitted  near  the  vegetable 
patch.  It  prevents  the  sprouting  of  the  seed. 

Don't  say  you  expected  a  glass  of  buttermilk.  All 
our  butter  is  made  in  Egypt. 

Kindly  refrain  from  expressing  surprise  at  con- 
densed milk.  It  comes  from  a  condensed  cow. 

The  cow  is  a  good  cow.  Do  not  question  it  further 
on  the  subject. 

The  dog  Rowdy  will  not  retrieve  mosquitoes  shot  on 
the  highway. 

Ladies  bringing  caramels  for  the  Pig  will  kindly  su- 
perintend the  chewing  thereof  and  extricate  the  candy 
from  the  pig's  teeth  as  often  as  it  loses  control  of  the 
same. 

Guests  are  requested  to  furnish  their  own  amuse- 
ment between  4  o'clock  and  4:10  p.  m.,  as  that  is  the 
proprietor's  period  of  creative  literary  work. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  63 

If  the  rooster  barks  and  willnot  let  you  pass,  pro- 
nounce the  magic  word,  Mangel-wurzel. 

If  any  of  the  animals  act  in  a  weird  and  unearthly 
way,  ring  one  bell. 

If  caught  on  the  barbed  wire  fence,  ring  one,  two 
and  three  bells  consecutively. 

When  stung  by  an  unknown  insect,  do  not  become 
excited  and  upset  the  furniture,  nor  ask  if  anyone 
heard  it  rattle  before  biting,  but  request  the  proprietor 
to  relate  a  much  worse  experience  of  his  own.  It  re- 
stores confidence. 

If  a  moth  is  found  in  the  coffee,  do  not  swear,  but 
eount  ten.  Some  people  have  counted  a  dozen. 

No  cameras  allowed  on  the  premises. 


HAVE  YOU  EVER  FELT  LIKE  THIS? 

Every  one  has  some  word  which  he  holds  in  peculiar 
aversion — a  word  that  disagrees  with  his  temperament 
even  as  an  article  of  food  goes  against  his  stomach. 
The  very  sight  of  it  fills  one  with  sudden  discourage- 
ment. It  may  be  a  fair  enough  word,  a  righteous 
word,  a  popularly  inoffensive  word.  But  every  time 
you  see  it,  hostility  springs  to  the  ramparts  of  your 
soul  and  shouts,  Away,  perfidious  thing !  Avaunt ! 
Skedaddle.  You  and  that  short  string  of  letters  are 
enemies  for  life. 

In  such  abhorrence  I  held  the  word,  "  Perse verence." 
It  acted  as  an  emetic  on  my  patience.  I  loathed  the 
sight  of  it ;  felt  pained,  grieved  and  unlucky  at  the 
sound  of  it.  Coming  upon  it  in  print  or  hearing  it 
in  the  voice  of  a  friend  was  like  being  yelled  at  by  the 
philosophy  of  all  the  ages.  And  correspondingly, 
"Perseverence"  seemed  to  have  a  personal  dislike  for 
me.  With  reptilian  insinuation  it  leered  into  my  face. 
Jeered  me.  It  whispered,  "You  can  accomplish  noth- 
ing except  by  me.  I  am  the  greatest  working  prin- 
ciple in  the  world.  You  hate  me  because  you  are  as 
lazy  as  a  Bagdad  beggar,  listless  as  a  cloud,  perhaps 
good  for  something,  but  destined  for  nothing  at  all, 
because  you  do  not  PERSEVERE." 

We  prescribe  a  long  trip  to  Hell  for  people  who  keep 
advising  us  to  change  our  ways.  The  more  brilliant 
the  advice,  the  more  tawdry  our  defense  for  not  tak- 
ing it.  And  here  was  one  word  that  attacked  me  with 
ever-increasing  sharpness,  backed  with  a  multiplying 
pageant  of  bad  omens,  that  made  me  feel  weak  and 
conquered. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  65 

Occasionally  I  would  surrender  and  resolve  to  give 
Perseverence  a  trial.  I  would  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace 
and  meditate  and  meditate  and  meditate  until  it  was 
time  to  go  to  bed.  On  the  morrow,  a  half  day  would 
be  gone  before  I  realized  there  was  only  a  half  of  a  day 
left.  In  the  remaining  half  I  would  deplore  the  loss 
of  the  first  half. 

Once  the  tilling  of  the  soil  was  like  working  on 
a  captured  dream.  After  sowing  the  seeds  I  was  whiz- 
zing with  impatience  for  their  growth.  I  loitered  and 
watched  for  their  coming  up.  One  inspection  a  day 
would  not  satisfy  me.  I  went  over  the  ground  again 
for  a  minuter  scrutiny.  Then,  after  walking  away, 
turn  to  see  if  anything  had  sprouted  behind  my  back. 
Upon  entering  the  house  I  would  go  to  the  window 
and  take  another  glance  at  the  expected  soil.  Writ- 
ing a  story,  I  would  arise  frequently  and  look  for 
developments. 

Life  had  a  poor  prospect  when  ambition  flogged  as 
indolence  hugged  me.  But  I  blamed  it  on  the  beauty 
of  the  universe.  The  sunsets  filled  me  with  too  much 
crimsom  sublimity  for  dealing  with  ink  and  paper. 
The  skies  were  so  large  they  made  me  feel  too  small 
to  work.  The  fresh  air  whimpered  delicious  lullabies 
to  my  strength  of  purpose.  From  the  soil  emanated 
antique  dreams  and  mythologic  nonentities.  The  odor 
of  a  rose  was  a  narcotic.  The  contemplation  of  Nature 
stilled  me.  From  the  torpid  atmosphere  I  lifted  the 
fancied  lotus  and  ate  with  my  soul.  Enthralled ! 
Amorously  stupified !  I  wandered  amid  the  emblems 
of  eternity  and  forgot  the  time. 

Then  I  roused  and  shook  myself  like  a  tree  that,  in 
meaningless,  I  almost  was.  I  became  human  again; 
remorseful ;  ambitious.  I  called  myself  the  laziest 
man  in  the  world.  This  distinction  gratified  me.  If 


66  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

I  was  the  laziest  in  the  world,  I  could  be  forgiven. 
It  was  not  my  fault. 

In  the  course  of  time  I  dug  up  enough  carrots  to 
serve  at  four  meals.  Two  cabbages  represented  my 
toil  over  that  blowzy  green  rose  of  the  sod.  The  rad- 
ishes were  averagely  good.  The  watermelons  looked 
very  much  like  Easter  eggs.  The  cucumbers  died  at 
birth.  But  potatoes  were  plentiful;  and  the  chickens, 
cured  of  their  egg-eating  propensities,  supplied  me 
well. 

With  all  these  ridiculous  hardships,  it  was  true  that 
hard  times  on  a  farm  are  not  as  lacerating  as  in  the 
City.  Eesources  are  more  pliable.  They  stretch  when 
you  want  them  to.  But  a  restaurant  dinner  won't 
stretch  at  all,  although  more  than  a  few  of  them  feel 
elastic  between  the  teeth.  As  for  my  literary  efforts, 
in  spite  of  this  constitutional  negligence,  they  kept 
me  even  with  the  world. 

Gradually  I  lost  interest  in  agriculture.  I  did  de- 
sire to  plant  another  lot  of  seeds.  Time  passed.  The 
seeds  were  not  planted.  My  friends  said  I  didn't 
care.  Little  did  they  know  how  much  I  cared  and 
that  I  had  merely  lost  the  knack  of  starting  in  again. 
Letters  to  friends  were  on  my  desk  unanswered  or 
were  lost.  Visits  to  many  of  them  were  overdue,  de- 
linquent and  unpaid,  while  I  dreamt  golcondas  of 
high-class,  rich-quartz  dreams  that  were  worth  about 
$25,000  a  ton. 

This  tranquility  cost  me  a  few  hundred  dollars  one 
time,  and  a  lot  of  fame.  I  was  in  that  state  of  mind 
when  one  begins  to  feel  romances  about  buried  treas- 
ure. I  wondered  whether  there  might  not  be  some  on 
my  premises.  Pondering  on  buried  treasure  is  nearly 
the  last  resort  of  a  vagrant  mind.  When  the  realms 
of  reality  are  slighted,  the  allurements  of  chance  re- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW     67 

ceive  our  footsteps.  I  was  even  at  the  point  of  rea- 
soning out  at  what  most  likely  spot  near  my  fences 
I  should  begin  to  dig.  It  would  be  horrible,  mused 
I,  if  the  treasure  were  there  and  I  not  know  it. 

But  one  day  I  went  worse  than  that.  I  neglected 
to  read  the  morning  paper.  The  stationer's  boy  from 
Melrose  used  to  make  his  rounds  on  a  bicycle  and 
throw  the  rolled  newspaper  against  my  door.  What- 
ever the  mood  of  that  moment,  I  had  always  gone  out 
on  hearing  the  final  publishing  thud  of  the  power  of 
the  press  against  my  front  door.  That  day  I  paid  no 
attention  to  it.  The  condition  was  obvious.  When  a 
former  newspaperman  no  longer  cares  for  the  day's 
news,  he  is  in  the  last  stage  of  uselessness.  I  had  not 
missed  the  paper  a  day  in  about  five  years. 

And  on  that  day — I  opened  the  door  in  answer  to  a 
knock,  and  a  trampish-looking  fellow  asked  me  if  he 
could  come  in  and  have  a  bite  to  eat. 

"Free  lunch  for  hoboes  is  usually  served  in  the 
back-yard,"  said  I. 

"I'm  no  hobo;  I'm  the  King  of  Oakland,"  he  re- 
torted, picking  up  the  newspaper  and  shutting  the 
door  behind  him. 

I  watched  for  his  next  move ;  which  was  to  draw 
a  large  revolver  and  then  to  sit  down,  holding  the 
weapon  in  his  lap. 

I  had  left  mine  in  a  desk  drawer.  As  soon  as  I 
beheld  the  glittering  shooter  in  his  strong,  dirty  fing- 
ers, the  man  took  on  a  certain  fascination  for  me. 
His  features  became  suddenly  distinct  with  more  than 
ordinary  realism.  The  high  temples,  the  wide,  rec- 
tangular eyes,  the  slotty  mouth,  muscular  jaw,  pump- 
kin-colored hair  and  about  three  days'  growth  of 
beard  became  fixed  in  my  attention  to  a  miraculous  de- 
gree. 


68  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

"I'll  get  you  something  to  eat,"  I  said. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  commanded;  "111  go  with 
you  to  see  if  you  don't  poison  it." 

"Why  should  I  wish  to  poison  the  King  of  Oak- 
land?" 

He  laughed.  "Kings  have  to  be  careful.  Our  lives 
are  always  in  danger." 

At  first  I  took  him  for  a  highwayman,  and  as  he 
made  no  move  to  practice  with  his  gun,  felt  fairly  at 
ease.  Now  that  he  gave  symptoms  of  lunacy,  I  was 
more  nervous  of  his  whim,  I  sat  down. 

"Hey,  villain,"  he  whispered,  "don't  do  anything 
like  that  again  without  asking  me  permission.  You 
give  me  a  shock."  And  he  brandished  the  revolver. 

I  arose  again. 

"Wow!"  he  cried  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "Don't  do 
that,  I  told  you.  Give  me  notice  before  you  make  a 
move?" 

I  was  willing  to  accommodate  him.  Lunatics  are 
ticklish  and  hard  to  please,  especially  the  King  sort. 
One  little  unintentional  act  of  discourtesy,  and  it's 
high  treason  to  them.  With  a  revolver  to  back  up 
their  verdict,  it  makes  any  extemporaneous  subject 
nothing  less  than  a  flatterer.  I  had  never  dreamed  of 
being  flatterer  to  a  King;  fawning  for  prince's  fav- 
ors. But  now  I  can  easily  see  how  the  habit  comes 
upon  one.  I  forgave  those  old  hypocritical  courtiers. 
Imagine  a  despot  with  about  twenty  halberdiers  and 
a  few  black-masked  executioners  hanging  around,  and 
who  would  care  to  differ  with  him  on  a  political  or 
religious  question? 

I  bowed  to  the  King  of  Oakland  and  asked  his  royal 
will. 

His  majesty  wished  me  first  to  turn  my  back  and 
lift  my  coat. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  69 

"All  right;  just  wanted  to  see  if  you  carry  a  gun. 
Now  get  me  a  spread  of  food.  But  go  slow.  Remem- 
ber, my  nerves  are  very  bad  and  I  can't  stand  a  sud- 
den performance  of  any  kind.  They  make  my  royal 
heart  jump  like  royal  popcorn. " 

"Quite  so,  your  majesty." 

How  easily  we  can  adapt  ourselves  to  the  weirdest 
circumstances !  One  can  be  a  smiling,  sycophantish 
courtier  at  short  notice.  And  to  think  I  had  ever 
wasted  time  at  anything  when  I  could  become  a 
mediaeval  hypocrite  in  a  moment.  Not  that  the 
mediaeval  part  was  so  much  of  a  change,  but  the 
hypocricy.  I  wished  Gilsey  were  there  to  see  me  and 
take  notes  for  a  Sunday  story. 

"Now,  slowly  to  the  kitchen. " 

"As  you  will,  your  majesty." 

"And  now  for  a  banquet." 

"Yea,  my  liege." 

I  prepared  a  meal  of  bacon  and  eggs,  coffee,  bread 
and  butter,  oranges  and  grocery  store  cakes.  While 
I  was  doing  so,  he  unrolled  the  newspaper  and  pro- 
ceeded to  read.  Yet  it  was  plain,  through  the  cor- 
ners of  my  eyes  and  the  reflections  in  the  coffee  pot, 
that  he  was  not  failing  to  observe  my  slightest  move. 
When  the  breakfast  was  ready  he  folded  the  news- 
paper and  put  it  into  his  pocket.  Not  wishing  to  dis- 
turb his  equilibrium  by  making  overt,  and  what  he 
might  consider  vulgar,  comment  upon  this  bit  of  royal 
prerogative,  I  said  nothing  about  it,  and  served  the 
victuals. 

"Be  seated  and  eat  in  the  presence  of  your  King," 
he  said. 

"Your  majesty,"  quoth  I,  "your  humble  henchman 
hungers  not,  but  would  fain  guard  thee  whilst  thou 
eatest." 


70  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

"Eat,  slave, "  he  shouted,  fidgeting  and  waggling 
his  revolver. 

Had  he  pointed  it  or  even  flourished  it,  I  should  not 
have  cared  as  much.  The  act  would  have  betokened 
some  degree  of  reserve  and  calm.  But  to  sit  before  a 
fidgeted,  waggled  revolver  adds  the  element  of  chance 
to  personal  truculence,  and  I  speedily  acquiesced,  will- 
ing to  humor  my  monarch  by  eating,  although  I  had 
breakfasted  just  before. 

"Eat  first;  so  that  I  can  see  you  have  not  plotted 
to  poison  me." 

"I  ate  with  gusto. " 

He  did  likewise,  after  waiting  with  studious  zeal  to 
observe  the  effects  of  the  food  on  me.  I  ate,  trusting 
that  nothing  deleterious  had  gotten  into  the  food  by 
mistake. 

After  satisfying  his  hunger,  my  guest  inquired  what 
occupation  might  be  mine. 

I  told  him  I  was  a  newspaperman  in  the  main. 

"Ah,  I  have  dealt  with  the  vile  press  and  been  in- 
terviewed frequent. " 

"To  be  sure,  your  majesty." 

A  pause,  and  then  he  said,  "Say,  man,  if  I  could 
trust  you,  I  could  put  you  in  the  way  of  making  a 
little  dish  of  money." 

I  told  him  he  could  trust  me  in  that  particular,  as 
I  had  had  that  very  idea  for  a  long  time. 

"I  don't  know.  Kings  have  got  to  be  careful  with 
their  plans." 

"Believe  me,  I  can  keep  a  secret." 

The  word,  "secret,"  evidently  thrilled  him,  for  he 
sat  up  and  asked  me  not  to  be  so  wise. 

"However,"  he  replied,  "I  wish  I  could  trust  you; 
you'd  make  a  couple  of  hundred  at  least.  You've 
treated  me  white." 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  71 

"Tell  me  the  trick." 

"I  would  tell  you  if  I  could  trust  you." 

"Really,  you  can  trust  me  to  your  heart's  content." 

"I  know  I  can;  but  maybe  I  oughtn't." 

"All  right  then;  let  it  pass." 

"All  the  same,  I  wish  I  could  trust  you.  I'd  like 
to  see  you  get  the  stuff.  Now,  suppose — :  He 
seemed  on  the  point  of  telling. 

"'Yes;  suppose — " 

"No;  I  guess  I  better  not  tell." 

"All  right." 

"But  suppose — " 

"Yes;  suppose — " 

"Suppose  that  I  had — but  I  have  not — escaped  from 
an  insane  asylum." 

"Just  for  the  sake  of  argument,  my  liege." 

"Exactly.  And  suppose  the  whole  country  looking 
for  me." 

"They  naturally  would." 

"Of  course,  if  they  find  me,  I  go  back.  If  they 
don't  find  me,  I'm  a  big  mystery.  The  King  of  Oak- 
land missing !  See  ?  Of  course  you  do.  Now,  you,  as 
a  newspaperman,  know  the  value  of  a  mystery.  You 
have  entertained  me  at  your  home.  Have  you  a  cam- 
era? Good.  Now,  you  write  me  up.  The  King  of 
Oakland  entertained  in  royal  magnificence  by  a  news- 
paperman. All  the  newspapers  of  San  Francisco 
search  for  the  missing  King.  Can't  find  him.  If  I'm 
caught,  they  all  interview  me.  Not  much  of  a  story. 
Captured  too  soon.  If  you  help  me  to  escape,  you 
prolong  the  mystery,  and  write  it  up  big.  See?" 

"If  it  were  just  a  little  true,  how  lucky,"  thought  I. 

"The  grand  idea  is  in  waiting  until  the  excitement 
gets  up  to  110  in  the  shade." 

So  I  imagined.     I  would  have  been  willing  to  help 


72  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

a  spectacular  lunatic  escape,  in  order  to  get  a  story, 
if  it  were  not  for  that  revolver,  which  he  might  reck- 
lessly use  on  a  passer-by  that  peradventure  would  not 
recognize  his  royalty. 

''King,"  I  inquired  with  deep  feeling,  "have  you 
ever  killed  a  man?" 

"No;  I  swear  I  have  not." 

"I.  don't  mean  in  cold  blood, 'with  malice  afore- 
thought, but  merely  by  accident,  in  the  pursuit  of 
your  royal  will?" 

"No;  I  haven't." 

"Of  course,  I  don't  mean  murdered  him,  but  just 
playfully,  as  a  joke,  as  a  royal  whim.  Did  you  ever 
knock  a  base  varlet  on  the  head  with  your  sceptre, 
to  see  what  he  would  do?  Did  you  ever,  while  dis- 
playing the  eccentricity  of  genius,  to  which  all  mon- 
archs  are  prone,  hit  one  of  your  subjects  over  the 
head  with  a  silver  mace  or  a  potato-masher,  not  in- 
tending to  end  his  earthly  wanderings,  but,  to  your 
surprise,  he  had  to  go  to  the  Coroner's  Jury." 

"No;  never!     Upon  my  honor!" 

Presently  he  arose  to  go.  "Friend,"  said  he,  "I'm 
glad  to  see  you  can  take  a  joke.  I  don't  happen  to 
be  the  King  of  Oakland.  Just  a  hobo.  Thought  I 
would  amuse  myself  and  you  while  I  'ate  breakfast. 
You  didn't  mind  my  gun-play,  did  you?  The  eccen- 
tricity of  genius,  as  you  call  it,  is  my  only  fault."  He 
put  the  weapon  back  into  his  pocket.  "I  might  come 
back  some  time,  and  hope  you  will  invite  me  for  din- 
ner."  He  asked  me  for  a  sandwich,  which  he  took 
with  a  jocular  bow,  and  departed. 

That  same  evening,  walking  down  to  Melrose,  I  saw 
his  picture  in  the  afternoon  paper.  He  had  been  cap- 
tured, having  committed  jailbreak  the  day  before. 
Burglary  was  his  trade. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  73 

It  was  the  first  time  in  years  I  had  neglected  to 
read  the  morning  news,  which  he  had  carried  away 
with  him  and  which  contained  a  full  account  of  his 
escape.  Perhaps  I  would  have  let  him  remain  at  the 
bungalow  while  I  took  his  photograph  and  a  romantic 
account  of  his  escape  to  a  City  paper.  It  would  have 
been  a  fancy  sensation.  Here  Opportunity  had  not 
only  knocked  at  my  door  but  forced  its  way  in  with  a 
pistol.  But  the  lazy  man  waits  for  Opportunity  to 
come  around  with  banners  and  a  brass  band,  take  his 
arm  and  lead  him  to  a  seat  of  glory. 


THE  TINTS  OF  NATURE 

One  day  I  received  a  quaint  letter.  My  morning's 
mail  was  usually  full  of  printed  matter,  advertise- 
ments of  chicken-louse  exterminators,  churns,  butter 
colorings,  fertilizers,  plows,  corporation  stocks,  apple- 
corers,  airships,  books — everything  that  genius  could 
invent  for  folly  to  invest  in.  Now  and  then  came  in- 
vitations to  buy  type,  addressed  to  a  printing  firm  with 
which  I  was  once  associated.  Some  of  these  ads  were 
scrawled  with  several  addresses,  showing  how  I  had 
been  tracked  from  point  to  point  by  the  Post  Office 
Department.  Once  in  a  while,  or  twice  or  thrice  in 
a  while  I  received  a  check  from  a  magazine  or  news- 
paper. This  would  retouch  the  universe  with  splendor, 
and  my  soul  immediately  take  on  a  new  and  optomistic 
philosophy. 

Howbeit,  this  letter  was  from  a  literary  friend  in 
New  York,  requesting  from  me  certain  information 
of  which  I  was  possessed.  I  was  ardent  therefore  to 
impart  it  to  him. 

He  stated  that  he  was  about  to  write  a  story  of  Cali- 
fornia life  and  desired  me  to  send  him  some  memoranda 
of  local  color  and  atmosphere.  For,  he  wrote,  "I  de- 
sire the  story  to  have  a  truthful  setting,  which  should 
be  appreciated  as  well  by  one  familiar  with  the  ground 
as  admired  by  an  Easterner.  As  you  know,  I  have 
never  been  in  California,  and  without  special  prepara- 
tion (thanking  you  in  advance)  might  easily  put  into 
the  narrative  matters  which  a  Californian  would  at 
once  detect  as  incongruous,  to  say  the  least.  My  idea 
is  to  portray  the  life  and  sentiments  of  the  good  coun- 
try folk  with  fidelity.  So  I  rely  upon  you  for  the  in- 
formation/' etc.,  etc. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  75 

To  this  communication  I  replied  as  follows : 

My  dear  friend : — You  are  certainly  to  be  commended 
for  being  thus  punctilious  and  painstaking  about  your 
work.  And  I  rejoice  in  being  peculiarly  fit  to  supply 
your  needs.  I  have  always  had  a  love  for  local  color 
and  atmosphere.  Within  the  last  year,  this  inclination 
has  been  allotted  a  profusion  of  its  loved  environment. 
The  benefit  of  the  same  I  give  to  you  cheerfully,  as 
appertaining  to  my  own  acreage,  which  consists  of  a 
full  and  undivided  acre. 

Let  us  take  up  the  matter  systematically.  Starting 
with  Nature  in  its  broadest  sense,  then  noticing  its 
fauna  and  flora,  its  insect  life  and  thus  gradually  get 
down  to  man.  I  shall  not  even  trust  my  memory  for 
these  things,  but  take  a  notebook  out  in  the  open  and 
give  you  vivid,  realistic  impressions  taken  on  the  spot. 

Before  getting  down  to  detail,  allow  me  to  state,  ere 
I  might  overlook  the  fact,  that  the  universe  is  grand. 
Do  not  forget  this  in  your  enthusiasm  over  minor 
points.  You  may  have  a  fairly  good  view  of  the  uni- 
verse in  your  part  of  the  country,  as  truly  the  uni- 
verse extends  to  all  places  on  earth.  But  mayhap  you 
never  noticed  the  grandeur  of  it  in  the  limited  scope 
and  smaller  distances  out  East.  So  I  note  it  in  your 
behalf. 

Next,  as  to  Nature  hereabouts.  Nature  is  sublime. 
Whatever  pessimists,  humorists  and  skeptics  you  may 
have  read  to  the  contrary,  take  a  straight  tip  from  me : 
Nature  is  the  greatest  thing  on  earth  today.  Sections 
of  it  there  may  be  where  the  interest  sags — dark,  liver- 
colored  spots  with  fungi  and  decaying  animal  matter. 
But,  speaking  without  bias,  Nature  is,  in  the  aggregate, 
sublime. 

I  now  take  paper  and  pencil  into  the   landscape, 


76  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

which  lies  immediately  outside  my  front  door,  to  give 
you  the  -Local  color  and  atmosphere  sketched  from  life. 

The  first  thing  I  observe  is  the  sky.  It  is  blue.  Far 
to  the  north  the  pure  tint  is  somewhat  overcast  with 
a  milky  exudation,  that  seems  to  have  curdled ;  and  on 
the  west  are  fluffy  cloud-like  masses  resembling  about 
$3.50  worth  of  absorbent  cotton  pulled  apart  and  scat- 
tered without  purpose  or  design.  But  over  my  farm 
the  sky  is  exceedingly  blue.  I  enclose  you  real  es- 
tate prospectus  of  a  tract  of  land  about  a  mile  from 
here,  in  which  is  poetically  described  the  azure  of  that 
place.  All  visitors  declare  that  my  azure  is  superior. 
So  you  can  judge  for  yourself.  Directly  overhead 
where  I  am  now  standing  is  the  highest  point  in  the 
heavens  :the  zenith,  of  which  you  have  doubtless  read. 
It  is  but  a  point  in  the  sky  and  indistingushable  by 
any  mark  from  the  surrounding  expanse ;  but  a  straight 
and  absolutely  vertical  line  downward  from  it  would 
pass  directly  through  the  spot  on  which  I  now  stand. 
You  really  ought  to  come  here  and  stand  on  it,  as 
the  experience  is  without  parallel.  On  my  neighbor 
McCracken's  farm,  for  instance,  the  line  to  this  zenith 
would  be  oblique.  But  he  is  an  unsentimental  fellow 
and  does  not  care. 

All  around  me  is  the  horizon.  Partially  obscured 
by  intervening  houses,  hills  and  trees,  it  extends  never- 
theless in  a  circle,  a  small  arc  of  which  was  unfor- 
tunately destroyed  the  other  day  by  a  forest  fire. 
This  horizon  is  full  of  landscape  and  local  color,  some 
of  which  I  shall  attempt  to  describe. 

The  general  color  of  the  landscape  varies,  of  course, 
with  the  season  of  the  year.  There  are  two  seasons : 
the  dusty  and  the  muddy.  At  the  present  time,  the 
hue  is  asort  of  suet  antique  and  scrambled  buff,  with 
a  veiling  of  sneeze-dust.  This  is  relieved  here  and 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  77 

there  with  gaudy  splashes  of  scarlet  underwear  hang- 
ing out  to  dry.  Some  of  the  roads  are  fine  pastel 
effects  of  Egyptian  gray  with  fences  of  raek-and-ruin 
drab.  Most  of  the  houses  are  about  the  color  of  a 
47-year-old  farmhand,  the  trees  in  their  backyards, 
or  what  an  artist  would  call  backgrounds,  being  very 
much  the  local  color  of  a  cucumber  or  a  frog;  the 
trunks  and  branches  are  a  familiar  brown.  Some- 
times pretty  birds  twitter  in  the  twigs ;  but  when  you 
listen  they  fly  away. 

In  the  distance  is  invisible  a  lavender  haze;  and 
beyond  that  is  more  distance,  which  you  cannot  see. 

My  bungalow  is  a  sort  of  maroon.  The  paint,  in 
drying  split  up  in  a  sort  of  maroon.  The  paint,  in 
anda  posts,  which  support  an  awning,  are  gray,  and 
here  the  heat  has  caused  the  paint  to  rise  in  blisters, 
which  I  have  made  dimples  by  pressing  my  forefinger 
into  them.  Dimples  are  much  more  attractive  than 
blisters.  The  window  panes  are  semi-transparent. 

Now  for  the  pasture  and  its  two  graminvorous 
inmates.  It  is  the  color  of  the  ordinary  newspaper- 
man and  magazine  writer's  pasture,  and  polka-dotted 
with  brown.  The.  cow  answers  to  the  name  of  lo, 
if  she  happens  to  be  looking  your  way  and  you  carry 
a  bucket  of  middlings.  She  is  what  you  might  call 
a  crushed  strawberry,  not  so  much  in  shape  as  in  local 
color  aforesaid.  This  fades  to  a  fine  French  pink 
towards  the  horns  and  deepens  into  a  rich  bologne 
flush  at  the  other  extreme.  She  is  dusty  and  cross- 
hatched  with  straw  on  the  left  side  from  sirloin  to 
flank.  One  of  her  horns  is  stuck  through  a  small 
cardboard  box.  Minotaur  II,  the  bull  (former  sobri- 
quet, "Veal")  is,  strange  to  say,  an  ecru  tint;  his 
^reputed  father  having  been  black  and  his  mother  red. 

Chickens  and  vegetables  you  can  describe  from  your 


78  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

own  imagination.  Eggs  you  have  observed  in  New 
York.  Chickens  lay  them  when  they  have  time. 

My  surplus  vegetables  I  export  chiefly  to  France. 
Russia  is  the  greatest  consumer  of  my  watermelons. 
Most  of  my  cabbages  I  sell  to  artists,  who  portray 
them  in  oils  as  lying  on  a  dark  table  with  a  deck  of 
cards,  a  cigar  stump  and  an  old  violin.  Split  peas 
I  sell  in  San  Francisco ;  and  my  Wagnerian  beans  go 
to  Kansas. 

I  ought  to  caution  you  that  this  emblazonry  of 
Vegetable  and  animal  life  is  found  only  in  rare  in- 
stances in  this  state.  If  you  are  going  to  write  up  the 
ordinary  California  farm,  you  should  tone  down  these 
effects  considarably.  Again,  this  display  of  local 
color  is,  you  must  understand,  merely  the  practical 
or  utilitarian  view  of  my  estate.  How  then,it  can  be 
imagined,  is  this  pictorial  spread  augmented  by  the 
ornamental  hues  of  such  as  the  black  and  yellow 
fur  caterpillar  flecking  the  foliage  and  eating  as  he 
flecks;  the  red-corseted  ladybug  strolling  amid  the  al- 
falfa ;  butterflies  in  pale  blue,  Numidian  black  and 
terra  cotta;  hundreds  of  grasshoppers  with  wings  like 
stained  glass ;  the  variegated  cinch  hug  in  the  pasture ; 
the  delicate  but  somber  peach-twig  borer;  the  harle- 
quin bees  and  the  irridescent  flies;  making  the  air 
flash  like  fairyland  when  a  scandal  is  being  told  about 
Queen  Mab. 

As  for  atmosphere,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  that 
around  here,  too ;  but  not  as  much  as  when  I  main- 
tained a  pigsty.  Chickens,  of  course,  have  an  atmos- 
phere of  there  own;  all  animals  have.  But  so  many 
fragrant  breezes  dally  around  this  part  of  the  country, 
taking  the  Augean  odors  occasionally  to  Santa  Clara 
County,  that  the  air  is  practically  fresh  all  the  time. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  79 

If  it  isn't  we  use  chloride  of  lime.  So  the  usual  at- 
mosphere is  one  of  industry  and  contentment. 

I  arise  with  the  lark,  and  write  stories,  dramas, 
novels,  critical  reviews,  jokes  and  sonnets  until  2  p.  m. ; 
then,  after  a  wholesome  repast,  cultivate  the  acreage 
until  sundown.  Every  time  the  sun  goes  down,  I  feel 
sad,  I  know  not  why.  Any  one  who  does  not  should 
feel  ashamed  of  himself,  or  know  not  why  not. 

Thus  we  go  on  from  day  to  day,  learning  the  les- 
sons of  life,  working  hard  with  brain  and  brawn,  read- 
ing good  books  by  the  evening  lamp,  adding  to  our 
stores  from  Nature's  bounty,  becoming  wealthier  in 
this  world's  goods  and  the  love  of  beauty;  not  proud 
therefor,  but  rather  does  it  make  us  modest  in  our 
riches  and  generous  to.  all  mankind.  This  should  make 
your  story  interesting  in  the  extreme,  and  unsur- 
passed in  fidelity  to  the  truth. 

We  now  come  to  examples  of  humankind  in  person. 
First,  there  is  neighbor  McCracken.  He  is  full  of  lo- 
cal color.  Peradventure  some  of  it  would  come  off  if 
he  should  fall  into  a  pond  and  be  unable  to  get  out 
for  half  an  hour;  still  is  he,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  all 
the  more  local  on  that  account.  A  casual  observer 
would  esteem  him  as  exhibiting  little  more  than  the 
neutral  shades  of  a  last  year's  chicken  coop  in  the 
glow  of  an  overripe  sunset.  This  would  be  an  in- 
justice. Once  his  overalls  and  shirt  were  blue,  his 
face  a  sort  of  tokay,  and  his  wide-spreading  beard  an 
Iowa  brown.  He  is  but  the  memoirs  of  all  these  now, 
as  their  pristine  tones  have  merged  into  one  another. 

McCracken  has  a  kind  of  straw-colored  wife.  She  is 
tall,  Puritanical  and  very  fond  of  being  silent.  Her 
complexion  is  that  of  a  cement  sidewalk;  nose  some- 
what darker ;  and  she  is  moose-eyed ;  the  mouth  is 
sharper  on  one  side  than  the  other,  like  a  small  par- 


80  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

snip.  Her  hair  is  of  an  autumnal  okra;  hands  of  a 
soap-sud  pallor.  On  such  description,  you  might  not 
think  she  is  worth  much,  but  as  she  works  very  hard 
and  eats  little,  there  can  be  no  honest  objection  to  her. 

I  have  not  the  space  to  illuminate  all  the  nearby 
population,  but  will  mention  the  most  colorific  of  them 
all,  Winifred  Klenkey.  Winifred's  usual  appearance 
is  like  the  banner  county  of  a  State  Fair.  Her  shoes 
are  tan,  splashed  with  bluing  and  whitewash.  Her 
stockings  are  a  faded  scarlet,  with  white  polka  dots; 
skirt  a  cranberry  red;  waist  pinkish;  and  apron  a 
faint  aquamarine  glittering  with  the  yelk  of  eggs.  A 
once-yellow  ribbon  encircles  her  waist ;  around  her 
neck  is  a  black  band  from  which  dangles  a  gold- 
plated  heart  locket ;  and  two  green  bows  stick  up  from 
her  hair.  The  said  ringlets  are  of  a  leghorn  hue,  above 
a  complexion  of  oleomargarine,  relieved  with  apricot 
and  a  few  dozen  Lyonnaise  freckles.  Her  eyes  are 
the  color  of  gizzards.  Her  mouth  is  so  big  she  can 
bite  a  5-cent  pie  in  half  and,  without  choking,  ask  if 
You  are  going  to  eat  all  the  rest  of  it.  She  loves  and 
is  loved  by  a  yokel  within  six  telegraph  poles  of  her 
home,  but  who  has  confided  to  me  that  he  thinks  her 
untrue  to  him,  and  wants  to  know  if  it  were  not  better 
to  relinquish  her  now  than  wait  until  the  separation 
might  cause  him  still  more  anguish.  I  said,  Be  brave 
and  trust  to  luck.  He  said  he  would  do  so  and  that 
my  advice  had  made  him  feel  better  right  away. 

Thus  you  see  how  we  live,  replete  with  local  color 
and  atmosphere,  far  more  exalted  than  our  sunless 
fellow-creatures  in  the  City. 

Now,  I  desire  you  to  write  and  tell  me  if  you  in- 
tend to  have  mangel-wurzels  in  your  story,  as  I  can 
tell  you  enough  about  them  to  make  all  your  rival 
authors  jealous  and  heart-sick.  They  will  swoon  with 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  81 

despair  and  bump  their  noses  on  the  weathered  oak 
of  their  desks  if  you  should  make  use  of  my  knowl- 
edge of  mangel-wurzels.  I  would  require  about  a 
week  to  transcribe  most  of  what  I  know  about  them. 

Wishing  you  cherubimical  success  and  circumforane- 
ous  fame,  I  remain,  Yours, 

L.  J. 


EVOLUTION  OF  A  USEFUL  ARTICLE 

When  dwelling  in  one  small  city  room,  a  few  years 
ago,  I  was  frequently  at  loss  for  a  place  in  which  to 
lose  things — a  repository  for  the  useless,  a  reliquary  for 
the  worthless  relics  of  pleasure  such  as  old  bottles, 
faded  flowers,  newspapers,  unheeded  letters  and  so  on. 
In  a  rented  room,  one  is  not  presumed  to  require  a 
large  dumping-ground  for  his  poverty-stricken  con- 
venience. The  funerals  of  his  wasted  materials  should 
not  occupy  the  attention  of  the  household  to  any 
marked  degree.  And  yet,  throughout  existence  we 
all  cast  behind  us  innumerable  things  no  longer  of 
worth,  scraps,  remnants,  refuse,  rubbish.  Life  is 
trailed  by  this  garbage  of  ruin.  Beauty  drags  a  path 
of  swill.  A  little  too  deep  for  this  frivolous  disquisi- 
tion. But,  I  was  merely  peeking  back  at  the  past. 
Few  of  us,  kind  friends,  realize  how  deep  and  curious 
the  past  from  which  we  trip  so  blithely. 

I  have  always  taken  a  meteoric  delight  in  throwing 
things  away.  Often  have  I  wished  to  own  more  things, 
just  in  order  to  get  rid  of  them;  to  strew  the  past  care- 
lessly with  the  fragments  of  enjoyment.  And  I  was 
prone  to  do  so  without  concern  for  the  immortal  house- 
keeping instincts  of  those  whose  duty  it  might  be  to 
clean  and  rearrange. 

But  I  forebore.  Being  a  supposedly  civilized  mem- 
ber of  an  alleged  civilized  community,  I  had  no  right 
to  conjure  up  chaos,  enrich  the  world  with  confusion, 
pile  it  with  cast-offs.  My  landlady  had  given  me  an 
art  nouveau  ash-tray  on  which  to  deposit  such  chaos, 
confusion  and  what  not.  But  had  I  the  right  as  a 
potentate,  and  were  the  inhabitants  my  slaves,  I 
surely  would  make  them  work.  There  would  be  no  in- 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  83 

dolence  in  my  dominions.  I  should  have  a  score  of 
flunkeys  following  me  about  and  picking  up  things. 

Should  some  one  present  me  with  a  diamond  ring,  I 
would  strip  off  the  wrapping  paper  and  string,  drop 
them  on  the  polar  bear  rug,  break  the  plush  box  in  two, 
throw  one  piece  at  the  piano  and  the  other  at  the 
Venus  de  Milo;  then  put  the  ring  on  my  finger. 

On  receiving  an  editor's  check  for  $1000,  and  before 
placing  it  in  my  alligator-skin  wallet,  I  would  tear  the 
accompanying  letter  and  envelope  into  little  bits  and 
toss  them  nonchalantly  at  the  chandelier. 

When  the  recipient  of  a  large  green-and-gold  por- 
celain vase,  securely  packed  in  a  box  of  excelsior,  I 
would  smash  open  the  box,  slide  the  boards  under  the 
parlor  chairs  and  dig  through  the  excelsior  swiftly, 
casting  it  all  around  me ;  then  carry  the  vase  to  the 
mantelpiece,  perhaps  dropping  it  accidentally  on  the 
fire-tongs,  and  light  a  cigarette. 

Searching  for  an  article  in  my  trunk,  I  would  heave 
to  the  ceiling  the  intervening  contents  until  finding  the 
article  wished  for. 

When  eating  bananas  in  my  robes  of  state,  I  would 
fling  the  skins  to  the  polished  floor  or  at  the  faces  of 
my  gentlemen-in-waiting  and  over  my  shoulder  at  the 
power  behind  the  throne. 

And  all  this,  simply  because  for  several  months  I 
had  had  one  small  art  nouveau  ash-tray  to  be  used  for 
such  purposes.  I  believe  even  that  when  looking  for 
a  word  in  a  dictionary,  I  would  tear  out  the  leaves 
instead  of  turning  them  from  the  page  I  wanted. 

But  away  with  dreams !  It  was  my  custom,  I  remem- 
ber, when  sharpening  a  lead  pencil,  to  retain  the  chips 
and  graphite  dust  on  a  piece  of  paper,  fold  this  neatly 
into  a  little  package,  and  mucilage  the  same  up  tight. 
These  accumulated  and  were  given  in  charge  of  the 


84  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

chambermaid  to  dispose  of.  Occasionally  visitors, 
out  of  curiosity,  would  open  these  packages,  becoming 
intensely  disgusted  on  viewing  the  contents  and  neg- 
lect to  seal  them  up  again. 

Subsequently  I  cleared  a  space  on  my  writing- 
table  for  slips  of  paper  no  longer  needed,  old  memor- 
andums, useless  correspondence,  first  manuscript 
copies,  etc.  These,  however,  soon  increased  to  such 
quantities  that  they  overran  the  desk.  The  papers 
were  always  mixed,  amalgamated  and  sliding.  When 
dawning  with  genius  above  my  day's  work,  I  had  to 
consume  preparatorily  a  quarter  of  an  hour  getting 
together  the  pages  already  written.  Daily  the  trouble 
spread  its  confused  wings  and  rumpled  my  patience. 

Then  a  vast,  nebulous,  twelve-portiered  vision  un- 
folded itself  before  me.  In  the  center  of  the  vision 
was  a  waste-paper  basket.  I  ceased  work  for  the  day 
to  go  out  and  purchase  one.  It  was  of  rattan  and  held 
about  five  gallons;  not  of  water  but  air;  hypothetical 
gallons.  Its  working  principle  was  a  joy.  All  I  had 
to  do  was  throw  things  into  the  basket,  and  next  morn 
they  were  dumped  out.  Thus  the  waste-paper  side  of 
my  life  seemed  destined  to  a  path  of  happiness.  But 
one  day  I  committed  a  blunder.  The  desk  being  full 
of  papers  that  I  absolutely  could  not  lose,  and  which 
could  nowise  be  disturbed,  I  looked  around  for  a 
place  to  put  a  fresh  page  of  manuscript.  No  spot  was 
within  reach  except  the  basket,  which  was  half  full. 
Above  this  heap  I  placed  the  precious  page.  A  few 
minutes  later  I  had  occasion  to  precipitate  a  bunch  of 
scraps  into  the  waste  basket,  but  took  good  thought 
not  to  forget  what  it  contained. 

Any  one  familiar  with  the  follies  and  divergencies 
of  the  human  mind  will  understand  how  I  succeeded 
thereafter  in  establishing  several  stratums  of  alternate 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  85 

rubbish  and  good  copy  in  that  rattan  enclosure.  So 
that  when  the  maid  came  in  the  morning  to  empty  the 
same,  I  spoke  forth,  "Beware,  woman!  Touch  not  that 
hallowed  receptacle.  It  contains  what  you  wot  not 
of." 

She  desisted,  after  protest,  in  the  excitement  of 
which  I  lost  my  blank  verse  manner  and  placated  her 
in  slang. 

During  several  days  that  twelve-page  plot  remained 
incomplete,  while  I  was  in  high -hopping  fear  lest  some 
menial  remove  the  basketful.  This  happened  to  sev- 
eral stories.  So  that  when  I  had  to  get  my  pages  to- 
gether, it  meant  a  search  through  many  layers  of 
wastiana. 

The  next  stage  of  progress  was  the  dropping  of 
manuscripts  on  one  section  of  the  floor  and  discarded 
sheets  on  another.  The  basket,  anyway,  when  full, 
and  packed  above  its  fulness,  would  topple  over  on 
its  side  and  did  not  accommodate  half  the  demand  upon 
it.  Yet  these  places  on  the  floor  came  to  be  so  useful 
and  easy  of  acess  that  they  eventually  arose  high  and 
wide,  and  merged.  Whenever  I  washed  to  find  a  cer- 
tain manuscript  or  dispose  of  the  others,  the  same  old 
search  had  to  be  gone  through.  And  to  prevent  pos- 
sible loss,  a  perusal  of  the  whole  miscellaneous  heap 
was  held. 

The  growing  needs  of  increased  literary  activity  now 
called  for  some  new  device  that  could  be  practiced 
without  exertion.  It  wTas  a  case  for  inventive  genius. 
So  that,  when  installed  in  the  bungalow,  I  pondered 
over  the  construction  of  a  suitable  container  of  waste 
paper,  one  that  should  require  no  such  delicacy  of  ~ 
handling  as  had  my  previous  ones — a  new  appliance 
that  a  child  could  operate,  a  careless,  mischievous 
child  at  that.  Such  a  one  I  felt  capable  of  controlling. 


86  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

Upon  a  day,  writing  with  unwonted  vigor,  and  not 
minded  with  worldly  matters,  I  had  occasion  to  dis- 
pense with  a  newspaper  clipping  held  in  my  hand. 
The  window  was  open.  Quite  absent-mindedly  I  rolled 
the  strip  of  paper  into  a  ball  and  threw  it  out  into  the 
yard. 

One  might  say  that  the  ensuing  idea  came  like  a 
flash.  But  it  was  not  a  plain,  ordinary,  commonplace 
flash ;  it  was  a  fine,  extraordinary,  rich,  rare  flash,  one 
like  that  which  the  calcium-man  directs  upon  the  skirt- 
dancer. 

The  rest  was  the  personification  of  simplicity.  I 
would  use  the  great  western  hemisphere  for  a  waste 
basket.  The  only  skill  required  was  to  squeeze  the 
paper  into  a  lump  and  project  it  out  the  window.  In 
cold  weather,  with  the  window  shut,  the  missiles  could 
be  sent  against  the  window-panes  and  drop  thence  into 
a  long  box,  to  be  upset,  when  full,  out  the  window 
aforesaid.  Its  only  complexity  was  to  refrain  from 
throwing  anything  valuable  in  that  direction.  With 
this  precaution,  no  sifting  of  the  dumping-place  should 
transpire. 

Thus  scholars  can  see  how,  for  my  purposes,  the 
world  evolved  from  a  thiny  parcel  of  lead  pencil 
shavings. 


AFTER  ALL 

I  despise  a  man  who  is  sarcastic  without  cark  or 
care  how  miserable  he  makes  others  feel.  He  does  not 
care  a  jot  how  others  cark  a  lot.  His  jokes  are  not 
for  general  enjoyment  but  are  so  fashioned  that  he 
consumes  all  the  laughter  himself.  He  observes  a  fel- 
low creature  make  a  perfectly  human  mistake,  and  im- 
mediately fills  up  with  glee ;  then  he  blurts  out  a  few 
happy  remarks  and  lets  this  glee  roll  into  the  circum- 
jacence  with  a  loud,  rollicking  sound,  which  gradually 
dies  away  to  a  sickening  snicker.  This  is  very  easy. 
Anybody  can  do  it.  But  few  of  us  are  so  enthusiastic 
over  other  folks'  failures  as  to  try  to  evoke  gaiety  in 
this  manner. 

Every  time  Gilsey  came  to  Melrose,  now,  he  ap- 
peared with  the  same  raspberry-jam  smile  all  over  his 
mouth.  He  offered  me  the  opportunity  of  joining  in 
with  his  jest  and  then  found  I  had  no  sense  of  humor 
for  refusing  to  laugh. 

"You  do  not  appreciate  my  subtle  wit,"  he  would 
say. 

"No,"  I  replied;  "I  do  not.  I  judge  wit  by  its 
effect.  Every  time  you  repeat  this  mildewed,  blighted, 
Sebean  jest,  I  at  once  feel  like  a  lonely  wanderer  on 
the  River  Styx.  The  gloom  of  ages  gathers  about  me. 
My  heart  is  chilled.  Beautiful  memories  shudder  and 
fall  to  the  purgatorial  sod.  I  have  visions  of  lopsided 
ghosts  gesticulating  in  dismay.  I  get  the  Elysian 
blues.  Melancholy  hangs  on  me  like  a  robe  of  cob- 
webs. Other  phenomena  take  place  which  it  would  be 
useless  to  mention.  But  it  is  proof  to  me  that  there 
is  no  real  humor  in  that  which  you  express  so  jaunt- 
ily. Were  it  humor,  I  should  doubtless  smile  against 


88  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

my  own  will.  On  the  contrary  it  only  causes  me  bit- 
terness. " 

I  do  not  think  Gilsey  understood  a  word  of  this. 
He  was  too  superficial.  But  what  can  you  expect  from 
a  poor,  underpaid  reporter?  I  mean  underpaid  in 
regard  to  living  expenses ;  as  to  ability  he  was  remun- 
erated far  beyond  his  merits. 

Suppose  you  should  give  expression  to  a  conceit  you 
considered  funny ;  not  that  it  actually  were  so,  but  you 
considered  it  to  be.  We  may  even  assume,  for  the 
sake  of  argument,  that  it  is  funny,  very  funny.  But 
would  you  wish  to  arouse  merriment  on  the  part  of 
one  listener  with  it  time  after  time  again?  Does  not 
a  joke  become  old  and  haggard?  Those  to  whom  it  is 
a  novelty  may  be  amused  in  spite  of  its  malice.  But 
why  expect  one  man  to  laugh  and  grow  fat  on  it  con- 
tinuously. 

It  became  Gilsey 's  habit,  when  he  visited  Procrast- 
ination Farm,  to  present  me  with  a  parcel  of  carrots, 
accompanied  by  the  statement  that  the  ordinary  canned 
goods  produced  on  a  farm  must  become  monotonous, 
and  so  he  had  brought  me  some  fresh  vegetables  from 
the  City. 

"Gilsey,"  said  I,  "the  long-tailed  carrot  is  not,  as 
I  understand  it,  conducive  to  jocularity  in  any  form. 
There  must  be  some  unfortunate  idiosyncracy  in  your 
brain,  perhaps  hereditary,  that  makes  you  believe  to 
the  contrary.  The  belief  is  a  hallucination,  and 
would  it  were  in  my  power  to  help  you  eradicate  it. 
I  extend  you  my  heartfelt  pity." 

He  rejoined:  "I  do  this  only  to  show,  in  a  slight 
way,  my  gratitude.  Once  I  was  penniless.  -You  took 
me  in  and  gave  me  food  and  shelter.  You  backed  my 
hopes  financially.  I  know  you  cannot  get  carrots  on 
a  farm,  and  so  I  bring  these.  It  is  true  there  may  be 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  89 

a  selfish  motive  in  the  act.  I  may  go  broke  again. 
And  I  wish  to  cherish  your  friendship." 

That  is  why  I  yearned  to  triumph  over  him  by  rais- 
ing a  stupendous  crop  of  vegetables.  Just  how  to  do 
so,  I  was  not  fully  apprised.  But  I  agreed  with  my- 
self that  by  slip  or  slap  I  would  capture  a  method,  and 
that  Gilsey,  on  arrival  at  Procrastination  Farm,  would 
be  shattered  in  spirit  to  behold  vegetables  galore. 

Ah!  And  I  did  succeed.  You  would  not  have  rec- 
ognized the  place  when  first  it  showed  its  agricultural 
fecundity  in  a  formal  way.  All  the  vegetables  grew  in 
rows.  Each  sort  was  a  uniform  size  and  quality; 
lined  up  as  if  on  exhibition  for  the  Superintendent  of 
a  school  of  vegetables.  There  were  corn,  potatoes, 
carrots,  onions,  strawberries,  melons,  asparagus,  cab- 
bages, lettuce,  squash,  tomatoes.  Every  season  of  the 
year  produced  something.  Oats,  corn  and  red  clover 
grew  for  lo  and  Minotaur.  From  a  distance,  the  rose 
bushes  looked  like  a  gala  fleet  under  full  sail. 

"Clara,"  said  I  one  day — 

(We  had  been  married  for  more  than  a  year.) 

Clara  was  a  most  peculiar  person  in  more  than  one 
way.  She  would  listen  to  McCracken  talk  about  sea- 
sons for  sowing  and  irrigating  and  fertilizing ;  then 
she  could  follow  his  advice  without  forgetting  a  word. 
Donning  a  pair  of  buckskin  gloves,  she  tinkered  and 
tampered  and  dibbled  with  the  earth,  and  when  she 
had  said  that  certain  vegetables  would  appear  at  a 
certain  time,  the  time  and  vegetables  came  hand  in 
hand.  Attired  in  simple  gray,  with  a  wide  yellow 
hat,  she  played  with  the  soil  and  the  seasons  as  if 
posing  for  a  picture.  The  snap  camera  never  could 
have  caught  Clara  unpicturesquely.  She  worked  like 
an  artist,  decorating  the  earth  with  leafy  creations. 


90  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

"Let  me  rake  this  row,"  I  said  one  day;  "I  want 
to  be  a  farmer  a  little  while." 

There  we  walked,  her  hand  in  mine,  while  I  raked 
even  clumsily  with  the  other. 

"That's  enough  for  that,"  said  she. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  know  because  it's  the  right  way,"  she  replied. 

I  could  not  see  how  that  was  strictly  material  and 
why  there  could  not  be  a  hundred  ways  of  raking. 
But  she  knew,  or  being  more  successful  than  I,  could 
pretend  to  with  better  effect. 

McCracken  declared  it  had  always  been  his  opinion 
that  all  my  place  required  was  common  sense ;  that 
as  for  himself  he  never  understood  how  any  one  could 
do  anything  the  wrong  way. 

I  suppose  I  should  have  been  more  common-sensi- 
ble all  along.  I  was  in  an  murky,  awe-inspiring  state 
when  Clara  found  me,  the  year  before.  I  say  "found" 
me,  because  I  was  actually  lost  in  reverie  and  neglect. 
The  grounds  had  had  a  horror-stricken  appearance. 
The  windows  looked  haunted.  My  writing  table  and 
the  surrounding  room  looked  like  Hope's  moving-day. 

Clara  called  with  an  oh-and-ah  sort  of  a  woman 
whom  she  had  promised  to  show  a  country  bungalow 
and  its  rusticated  bungalower. 

We  were  walking  in  the  "garden."  No  one  save 
myself  and  Gilsey  knew  that  it  was  a  garden.  A  num- 
ber of  thorns  still  clung  to  leafless  rose  bushes,  though. 

"You  look  a  trifle  obsolescent,"  remarked  Clara,  as 
her  friend  romped  with  Eowdy. 

"Yes;  I'm  getting  butter-milky  in  the  ambition." 

"Don't  you  like  your  bungalow?" 

"Oh,  yes!     All  except  my  own  cooking." 

This  was  a  gruesome  hint  to  throw  at  an  unsuspect- 
ing young  woman. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  91 

"I  wish  we  were  your  neighbors;  you  could  come 
and  board  with  us,"  she  responded. 

She  took  the  shock  well. 

" Clara,"  said  I,  in  a  fathomless  voice,  "if  I  were  to 
make  a  bonfire  of  all  the  derelict  papers,  broken  boxes 
and  tin  cans  around  this  place,  and  if  I  were  to  drive 
off  the  Saturnalian  disarray  on  my  desk,  and  if  I 
were  to  remove  the  brickbats  that  I  have  been  using 
for  paperweights,  and  if  I  were  to  replace  all  the  miss- 
ing buttons  on  my  coat,  and  if  I  were  to  dismantle  my- 
self of  this  blue  flannel  shirt,  and  attire  myself  like 
a  citizen  of  this  glorious  commonwealth,  would  you  be 
my  wife?" 

She  picked  a  thorn  from  the  bush.  Had  there  been 
a  rose,  she  would  have  taken  it  instead.  She  after- 
wards said  she  would  rather  have  done  so.  However, 
after  this  hesitation,  she  answered,  "You  might  bring 
about  the  change  on  a  speculation." 

In  this  age  of  cynicism,  a  man  who  is  happily  mar- 
ried is  almost  justified  in  thinking  he  has  discovered 
matrimony;  just  as  when  they  appeared  in  all  their 
lowly  effulgence  I  fancied  myself  the  first  finder  of 
melons  and  strawberries  and  pumpkins.  You  who 
have  seen  these  products  only  in  fruit  stores  and  on 
the  table  do  not  realize  the  great  big  pumpkin  feeling 
in  the  heart  when  beholding  a  large  sunny  pumpkin  of 
your  own  growing,  solid  on  the  earth  and  yellow- 
gleaming  through  the  tendrils  and  leaves.  I  felt  like 
telling  all  my  friends  to  try  this  new  amusement  for 
themselves — wives  and  pumpkins. 

The  relationship  of  man  and  woman  has  admitted  of 
so  many  by-plots,  clandestine  compliments,  moon- 
light mysteries,  ridiculous  intrigues,  that  few  of  us 
were  inclined  to  revere  the  solemnization  of  these 
comedies.  We  laughed  at  marriage  because  we  were 


92  THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW 

afraid  of  it.  It  was  not  to  be  signified  by  a  dove  on 
an  angel's  shoulder  but  its  truth  squawked  by  a  par- 
rot on  a  jester's  arm.  We  have  looked  upon  a  man 
who  marries  merely  as  one  endowed  with  the  right  to 
go  through  the  joke  for  himself.  Rather  would  we  af- 
ford for  a  woman  a  diamond  bracelet  than  that  most 
expensive  jewel  in  the  world,  a  plain  gold  band. 

Happiness  is  an  accident;  scarcely  ever  with  pains- 
taking reared.  It  is  a  flower  that  never  was  seen  in 
the  bud. 

I  think  I  have  an  old-fashioned  wife.  She  loves  her. 
home.  I  ttink  she  loves  all  that  is  in  it,  including  her 
husband.  She  has  a  thousand  ways  of  saying  so ;  and 
many  ways  of  smiling  it.  I  think  I  have  discovered 
love.  I  once  opined  I  knew  it a close  and  far;  so 
others.  There  was  something  misconstrued,  though, 
between  its  willow  shades  and  its  familiar  realities. 
The  wondrous  love  comes  like  an  unexpected  frag- 
rance to  a  man  standing  in  an  unknown  road.  Yet 
it  does  not  vanish  like  the  momentary  breeze  but 
magically  and  majestically  takes  the  days  from  time, 
that  life  seems  too  short  for  the  shortest  gratitude 
amid  its  beauties. 

"Grilsey,"  I  said  one  evening  when  we  had  him  at 
dinner,  "we  have  prepared  for  your  special  benefit  this 
bowl  of  carrots.  Partake  at  once,  as  we  will  wait  un- 
til you  have  eaten  them  all." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  went  to  such  great  expense  on 
my  account, ' '  he  replied,  well  nigh  overcome  with  emo- 
tion. Of  course,  I  used  to  bring  you  a  few  occasion- 
ally, when  you  couldn't  fool  the  farm  into  material- 
izing them.  But  I  did  not  expect  to  be  repaid  so 
soon." 

"Reporter!" — I  spoke  dramatically — "when  you  will 
have  been  deposited  in  your  last  resting  place,  I  shall 


THE  MAN  WHO  WANTED  A  BUNGALOW  93 

plant  carrots  in  the  lowly  sod  above  you  and  at  the 
proper  time  bring  around  the  cow,  the  bull  and  the 
pig  to  root  them  up." 

"Don't  you  believe  him,  Mr.  Gilsey,"  interposed  my 
wife;  "he  does  not  mean  a  word  he  says." 

"Indeed  I  do,"  I  exclaimed.  "Yet  may  I  revoke 
my  stern  decree  on  one  condition;  namely:  that  you 
drink  to  the  happiness  of  Two  in  a  Bungalow." 

Gilsey  raised  his  glass  and  saluted  us;  then  swal- 
lowed the  condition  smoothly.  After  a  prolonged 
"ah,"  he  added: 

"Make  that  condition  a  life  sentence." 


YB   13494 


239430 


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